The Way The Story Goes
by Jeanne80
Summary: A story of a man, as told by moments in the lives of people he knew, loved, lost, and some he never even met.


*Author: Jeanne *Title of the Story: The Way the Story Goes *Send Feedback To: jeca_97@yahoo.com *Rating: PG-13 *Keywords: Drama/Angst *Comments: Character Death *Character listing: DM J M A R Nick Alexa Kronos Darius Cassandra and several others *Short teaser/summary:   
  
A story of a man, as told by moments in the lives of people he knew, loved, lost, and some he never even met.  
  
Size: 140k  
  
Disclaimer: No profit made. No harm intended.  
  
* W A R N I N G : * This story contains some violence, death, discussions of death, accidents involving planes, possible strong language (nothing more than Hell, damn, and one necessary 'bastard'), and mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised.  
  
Other Information:  
  
- Notes for each section are at the end of the story.  
  
- Dates: BCE= Before Common Era (think B.C.), CE= Common Era (think A.D.)   
  
- I hope you enjoy it.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"It's later than you think my friend  
  
And pretty soon you at the end  
  
And there's no celebration  
  
For the ones with hesitation  
  
This is only just a glimpse  
  
You've only got your fingerprints  
  
They call it insignificance  
  
And brother, they ain't lying"  
  
...  
  
"The piper's at the gates of dawn  
  
He's playing dirges, not a song  
  
In a finger snap, we'll all be gone  
  
And not a tree will miss us  
  
Everyone you ever knew  
  
Could die and wouldn't make page two  
  
There's thousands disappearing  
  
Without anybody hearing, but...  
  
That's the way that the story goes  
  
That's the way the story goes"  
  
...  
  
"I'm headed back along the coast  
  
Accompanied by Ma Rainey's ghost  
  
We raised our glass and had a toast  
  
Said, "Here's to having been here"  
  
Even if this story bores you  
  
Mr. Death is coming for you  
  
It's just yourself you're tricking  
  
Clocks around the world are ticking  
  
That's the way that the story goes  
  
That's the way the story goes  
  
I tell ya, that's the way the story goes."  
  
("The Way the Story Goes" by Bocephus King & the Rigalattos.)  
  
~*~*~*~December 29, 2014CE, Timothy Wyatt, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
I can't seem to write my report today. I haven't been able to write it for the past three days, actually. My fingers freeze on the keys of my computer and my mind stills, focuses solely on a loss that should not hurt half as much as it does. Damn him.  
  
He wasn't supposed to leave at that time. He'd told me so. Joe and Amy had told me so. Everything said he wasn't supposed to leave then. His flight was supposed to be for the next afternoon. He was supposed to spend the night at Joe's and then leave at 14h to catch his flight. He was supposed to be at the airport by 14h30, suddenly appear in the seat next to mine and proceed to relentlessly pester me about my holiday visit with my family. He was supposed to be in the air shortly after 15h, casually telling me all about his stay with Joe, and Christmas dinner. He was supposed to be in London by that evening, safe and sound and intact with me tagging along. Then we would both get tired of our official, authorized roles as 'watcher and assignment' and would become 'friend and reluctant friend' like usual. And he was supposed to joke around, and poke me, and continuously push me to treat him like a good friend. He was supposed to tell me to lighten up, and relax, and enjoy life because life is too... It's always too...  
  
Damn him.   
  
He was right. I laughed every time the old man gave me that line. The irony was overwhelming. Methos, of all people, saying that life is too short. And now, the thought of it, the truth of it-- I can't seem to control the tears.   
  
Damn him. Why did he have to be on that flight?  
  
~*~*~*~Harvest Season, 3752 BCE, Shanuwah, Somewhere in the Skara Brae-Orkney Islands, Scotland~*~*~*~  
  
Everything I have ever done has led me to this moment. It is a testament of my foresight and strength. It is a declaration of all that I am and have been. My end is near; I can feel it every day now. It creeps ever closer, but this makes its approach bearable. For as I heard the moans emitting from inside the temple last night, I knew I had done right.   
  
He is my legacy to this world, to the future generations of the tribe. He will announce my wisdom and influence with his every action for years to come. He will make me proud. From the realm of the Gods, I shall look down upon him in the future and smile.   
  
I was the one who saved him after all. While the others saw a pale demon abandoned in the wilderness, I saw a gift from the gods. I stood firm to spare his life and the tribe has prospered because of my decision. My training and discipline have made him a fierce warrior and honed his intelligence. The gods granted us a master strategist and fighter, and I have molded him to serve us well.   
  
Etu-Anik leads our attacks and keeps peace in the tribe. He has shown the others many new fighting techniques and battle plans which have earned the tribe much land and valuables. He brilliantly uses the meaningless word "Methos" for his name in battle, confusing his enemies and causing them to underestimate him. He shows no mercy to a foe and conquers whole villages. He understands the purpose of his existence: the pursuit of power. With every day, he grants us more. He blesses the women every year. He has absorbed my teachings on the matter; he no longer cares if the woman cries, it merely means that she knows she is not worthy of him. He has provided our tribe with several strong men over the years, even if none bear a resemblance to their father. Of course, how can the image from the Gods be reproduced in the womb of a mere mortal woman? He helps bend opponents to my will, usually with the simple use of words. He knows that a friendly tone with a dark message can be far more persuasive than mere force. He has learnt well from me.  
  
Last night, he blessed our women again. Tonight, he will make the water from the rising river recede before another storm hits and wipes out our village. The others have not the eyes to notice such things, but I have seen him heal his own wounds. It began after the last battle he led. He returned victorious, but covered in blood. He confessed to taking a blow that would have killed any other man, but merely caused him to sleep and awake intact, as though no sword had sliced through his chest. He does not yet accept it, but he has ascended from the plane of exalted mortals to the plane of the Gods. While he refuses the truth, denies that he could control water, I know his abilities. The Gods granted us such a useful tool because of our unwavering faith and tributes; they would not return a lame god to us now. He will enter the river, fight the current, and redirect its flow away from our tribe.  
  
"It is time," I announce and Etu-Anik rises from his bed, apprehension is in his eyes.   
  
He follows me out of our circular temple without comment. Tribe members, holding torches, light our way. Etu-Anik remains silent as we walk to the water. If he dares try to protest his duty, I will remind him of whom he serves. But he still says nothing as we arrive. He merely regards the river the way he does an opponent: with cold, amused calculation. We stand at the water's edge for a moment.   
  
We are at the brink of demonstrating my genius, of displaying his ascension, of assuring my legacy.  
  
"It is time," I repeat and he nods before stepping into my triumph.  
  
~*~*~*~December 25, 2014CE, Amy Thomas-Plante, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
"Now, I won't be seeing Timothy at the airport, right?" He is checking for the third time since he announced he'd be going, and we're all waiting at the door to say good-bye... if he would ever trust us and leave.  
  
"For the last time, Methos, we are all damning our watcher oaths and, unless he now has psychic powers, Tim will spend one more night with his family." Joe says, pushing the old man toward the door. "If I had known you'd be this annoying, I'd have never agreed to lie to him."  
  
"You would've agreed to it," Sean chuckles. "Hell, the shock of Methos asking for a favour to selflessly let someone spend more time with their kids would've made you agree to sell your soul."  
  
Methos is quietly laughing as he pulls me into a hug. "Just because he's your husband and you like him, I won't hurt him... this time."  
  
Releasing me with a final squeeze and an affectionate wink, he turns to Joe. I watch as they embrace each other. Their whispered words are incomprehensible from this distance, but the conversation ends with a couple pats on each other's back. I can almost see faint tears in Methos' eyes. "Thanks," he finally says with a voice gruff with emotion. Joe knows how to get under the old man's skin sometimes.   
  
Methos sniffs loudly before eyeing Sean. He narrows his eyes and, being the adorable, playful guy he is, Sean does the same. "Either all of this holiday cheer has gotten to me or you put something illegal in the egg nog." Methos' usual wry grin is on his face, his eyes now crinkling at the corners. "But this was a great dinner and you did help out as much as Amy... maybe there's hope for you after all."  
  
"You hear that, honey?" Sean says. "The stuff worked! I think there was almost a compliment buried in there somewhere."  
  
"Oh, there was," the old man replies. It's strange to know that while my father accepts my husband, our friend will forever act as if he doesn't quite approve. According to him, Sean is never good enough for me, his former-damsel-in-distress. Methos is just pretending, though. Somehow I don't think Death on a Horse would be this kind to someone he didn't like. "Once you've thought long and hard enough and found it, you can come by and see my new house... I should be completely settled in for a couple years by then." Well, at least it is said in a friendly, teasing kind of tone.  
  
"Yeah? Well, where's Tim's number again?"   
  
"You wouldn't dare."  
  
"Oh, I think I would."  
  
"Would not."  
  
"Will so."  
  
"No--   
  
I clear my throat, realizing that Joe isn't going step between these two children. "We're not calling anyone, and someone is going to miss his flight." Both boys get a sheepish look on their faces. "I'm going. I'm going." Methos tugs his coat tighter, preparing for the cold weather outside. "I really appreciate this, all of this... the Christmas dinner, the-- everything. It was quite wonderful. And once he gets over being left in the dark, I'm sure Tim will appreciate what you're doing too. He just shouldn't be bothered simply because I have to fill out a few documents tomorrow morning for the move. I know I certainly wouldn't mind staying here a bit longer."  
  
With a quick, final shrug, Methos makes his leave in silence.   
  
"You know, I'm going to regret saying this once he's moved back here and he comes by on a regular basis to irritate me and criticize my researching skills," Sean says, "but I wouldn't have minded him staying here a bit longer either."  
  
"That's the Methos charm and curse, son," Joe softly responds. "He makes you enjoy his company, and always leaves before you're ready. He always comes back, though."  
  
"Ah, the curse part," I joke as I lead them back to the den. "I'll have to mention your theory when he gets back."  
  
"Now don't do anything crazy, dear," Sean calls behind me, taking the rear in our procession line. "He finds out that Joe thinks he leaves too soon, he's liable to stay in Paris until our grandchildren have grandchildren just to prove Joe wrong." Turning my head to catch his smile and join in the laughter, I realize one truth: the three of us may be laughing, but we don't hate the idea of him sticking around forever.  
  
~*~*~*~December 28, 2014CE, Margarie Getsburg, Melbourne, Australia~*~*~*~  
  
The news gives an updated list of those unfortunate souls who died in the plane accident in Paris a couple of days ago. My legs nearly give out when they say his name. I think I heard them wrong, but they flash his image on the screen and there is no doubt who is gone. It was an old photo, but I know who it was. I am sitting in a chair, trying to figure out how to break the news to my family when they walk in. Paul, bless his soul, is by my side instantly, holding my clasped hands, gently asking what is wrong.  
  
His reaction is about as great as mine. Rooney, Walter, and Cloe come to us then. We hug each other for a few minutes, tears rolling down our cheeks.   
  
Adam was one of the best neighbours we had ever had. And perhaps the only one who was like a natural uncle to my family. For 7 years, before Paul had been transferred to an Australian office and we were forced to leave Paris, Adam had baby-sat for us. So many times, with a grin, he'd act like it was a blessing and agree. They watched movies. He read to them. They taught him how to play 'Candyland'. He taught them how to make card houses. Rooney and Walter swore up and down that Adam was the coolest grown-up in the whole wide world. Cloe said he never hesitated to play tea party with her. He was like a big kid who could, miraculously, get the kids to bed on time, every time.   
  
I still believe that we could not have handled Cloe's illness if Adam hadn't been there. So soothing and confident about the doctors and their treatments, he managed to calm Paul and myself whenever we returned from the hospital. It was always so devastating to have to go to a hospital and be told that they were running more tests and they *think* this treatment will finally rid Cloe of her infection. To see our daughter, so very young at the time, barely 4 years old, in a hospital bed with all those ugly tubes attached to her. But, we'd come home to our two perfectly healthy boys who'd tell us about how "Adam said not to worry because he knew a thing or two about medicine and this type of virus and that she'd pull through." While Paul and I had our lingering doubts, Rooney and Walter firmly believed their little sister would be okay just because "Adam said so and he meant it." When we would tell him about what the doctors were doing and how Cloe was doing, he reassured us in much the same way: with simple expressions of tender confidence and unfounded faith. And for the strangest reason, we believed him. When Cloe finally came home with us, Adam greeted her with a stern look, said it was about time she had stopped "lazing about in that bed because tea parties are certainly boring by oneself," and then engulfed her in a huge hug. Her smile might as well have been the sun at that moment.  
  
We kept in touch over the years. The letters sent and received at least once a year, just to say what was new and how everyone was doing. We had just sent our latest reply last week, informing him that Paul had business in London in three weeks and that we'd all be going so he'd better clear one night off his busy schedule for a reunion dinner. Cloe had even insisted that he bring Peggy to the restaurant, so she could see if he'd really taken care of the doll as well as he had claimed in his letters. Peggy had been her gift to him the day we moved so that Adam wouldn't be so lonely without us. In every letter he ever sent, two lines would appear: "Oh, and Peggy says 'Hi.' She's being treated like a Queen."  
  
But now she's lonely... if he still has... if he still *had* her. Poor Adam.  
  
~*~*~*~January 4, 2015CE, Gerard Pitre, London, England~*~*~*~  
  
Methos was nuts. If there was any doubt that that immortal lost his marbles, it was removed once we started searching his place. I mean, the guy kept a lot of useless crap. I thought it'd be cool going through his stuff. His place was already getting packed up for the upcoming move back to Paris. Instead, his place is nuts.   
  
So, we go into this nice looking place. It's not exactly a palace, mind you, but Methos was not Mr. Cheapo. He was, however, Mr. I'm 5000+ Years Old And Crazy. I'm talking about an interior decor that is the definition of strange. There are quite a few funky chairs in this house. I can't even describe his art collection, other than to say he must have had a different personality buying each piece. His dining room is less a dining room, and more like a space containing chairs and a table that hold books, bags, papers, and pretty much anything else he decided could fit on them. Plus, you'd think a person that lived as long as he did would have a better bed or would have thought to put the bedroom in -oh, I don't know, the bedroom. This guy actually had his bed (which is simply a covered mattress with sheets and pillows, though it was made) and dresser in the second floor sitting area and used the two bedrooms as a closet and office. The closet is packed with tons of different clothing. Dress shirts, khakis, dress pants, ties, shorts, T-shirts, sweaters, cut-off jeans, you name it, it's in there. I guess he tried to be prepared to play any role for any age. The office is kind of sterile. There's really nothing impressive about it. The living room on the first floor was also like an office containing another computer, but this one has a lot of password-protected files we can't view yet.  
  
The weirdness doesn't stop there. There are secret compartments containing candy or weird looking jewellery in a bunch of rooms. There are desks with drawers with false bottoms concealing bottles of whiskey or some newspaper clippings of people I'm not even sure he knew. There is one huge vase with some stones inside. Each stone has a number and place written on it, like 15031995 Santorini. What the Heck that means only the nutcase could tell you, I'm sure. Perhaps he couldn't even tell you.  
  
And Methos had tonnes of books everywhere in this house. I think he was trying to construct a personal library to rival the U.S. Library of Congress. There are books on shelves, books on the floor, books on tables, books under his bed, books in closets, and books covering an entire wall in the lower level we discovered.   
  
It's this lower level that's the freakiest thing. It has weird crap all over the place. I mean, why any guy would keep some raggedy little doll with 'Peggy' stitched on its dress on a shelf beside some ancient bronze dagger stained with blood is beyond me. Why keep a tacky novelty spherical lamp on a shelf with a book of poems by Byron? Why keep a tacky novelty spherical lamp at all? Why would he frame a broken spear with a damaged arrowhead and three faded and tattered feathers attached to it? And why would someone attach a plaque on that frame saying 'The Growth Of/ Charging Deer & Raven Eye'? Exactly how insane does a person have to be before that makes any sense? And why would anyone keep a set of keys labeled 'spare barge' hidden in a basement when there's nothing to suggest he owns a barge and everything to suggest he hates the water? Why hide, on a pedestal in a secret cellar, an original edition of 'Flowers of Evil' by Baudelaire? Who cares if one page is ripped out and hasn't been taped back in yet? It was signed by the author himself! Methos once owned a used bookstore. He had to have known how valuable that book is.   
  
Methos also has a wall of swords and weaponry down here. I'm careful not to touch any of it. Everything looks sharp and dangerous. I don't know how the heck he managed to make people believe he wasn't Methos. How could anyone have a place like this and fool everyone into thinking he's Mr. Normal Mortal?   
  
I'm almost upset I'm missing his funeral today. I suddenly have this urge to go pay my respects to the old nutjob. He must've been pretty smart. You know if it hadn't been for his unfortunate and well-publicized death right when he was trying to move, we probably would have never found all this stuff, or even been able to break into this place to look. But luck's definitely on our side, certainly wasn't on his.   
  
The guy doesn't have any pictures, though. I wish I could have seen some of the broads he dated or married, seen how lucky he could get. But I keep searching this room and asking the others helping in the search and recovery, and we have yet to find anything containing any image of anyone this guy knew. Maybe he was afraid a picture said a thousand words or stole someone's soul. I'm sure seeing a photo of this Alexa chick I've heard about would say a lot about the oldest immortal. Or just a photograph of him with friends like Joe Dawson or Duncan MacLeod would be cool. But we're turning up squat.   
  
Right now, I get to start cataloguing every item in my section and then bagging it. I have to be finished before the end of the funeral to make sure we don't get caught. Duncan MacLeod reluctantly allowed us to pay for the funeral and help set it up. I have a feeling all hell will break loose if he discovers we cleared out his friend's secret basement. According to Joe (who, unfortunately for him, doesn't know we're doing this), Duncan and some others are coming back here after the funeral to sort Methos' belongings. Since his death, they've only been here to grab some clothes to bury the weirdo in.   
  
More luck on our side.  
  
Hopefully the service lasts several hours. There's speculation, considering the turn out for the wake last night, that dozens of immortals are going to show up to bid farewell to the old guy. They'd better; we're going to need a lot of things to delay the end of the funeral. This guy kept a lot of crap.  
  
I hope he rests in peace.  
  
~*~*~*~October 24, 1997CE, Kronos, Somewhere in the Ukraine~*~*~*~  
  
Methos sleeps like the dead. He always has. I wondered if he still would, after all this time away from the Horsemen.   
  
He seems to have learnt how to feel ashamed about being himself and fulfilling his destiny. He has become afraid, and attached to a world and people that will die. The very man who taught me that everything dies, now wants to let things live a little longer -as if it matters in the end. He was reluctant to kill MacLeod, determined to remain meek when he is a god. He actually stopped my fight with that pathetic Scot.   
  
Since his near act of treason though, Methos has proven he has not lost himself completely. The look he gave the clerk at the airport was the one he gave nearly all his victims. Such a still and calm expression with just a hint of amusement in the eyes, it once drove prisoners mad. The facial muscles frozen in place until they have to move so that he can make demands that are as deadly as they are kind. Methos' words are more dangerous than any sword. His friendly and caring tone always disguises the vicious intent. The clerk probably didn't even know why she knew our swords had to arrive with us. She simply felt that if they were lost, she was dead. Methos never issued such a threat, of course. He only ever bothers with promises and vows. Oh, but he would have killed her if those swords hadn't arrived in the Ukraine with us. I imagine he had already planned her murder while talking with her. He has always had that gift.  
  
Methos did frown when I killed the owners of our horses, but he grabbed supplies and readied the steeds without comment. And he mounted his horse with an ease that belied his time spent in cities as a peasant. He rides with a fluid skill that screams of instincts bred into him since before we met. The sight reminded me of something he used to say: "No man can control the river; it will control him." His nature is still flowing strong under his layers of civility. It is another welcome revelation.  
  
Even more shocking was his silent decision to produce dinner in this forest tonight. We dismounted, and he wordlessly began to hunt down some food. I saw with glee how quickly and efficiently he caught the rabbit and prepared it for our dinner. He still focuses on his prey with the same joyful concentration he used in his prime thousands of years ago. The rabbit never had a chance against such a predator. A natural killer is my Methos.   
  
After we ate, we talked of the old days, recalled our glory, and, I can tell, we both envisioned our future triumph. He may still call this current world 'progress', but I can see how much he misses riding with us, killing those miserable mortal fools. He may claim that our time apart has taught him much, but he cannot hide how much it has weakened him, nor can he hide the fact that he knows he has become soft. Methos speaks of being tempted to kill the idiot 'Methos' impostor whose trail led me to Seacouver and to him, and I can sense the disgust he feels at himself for letting someone else take the fool's head. Methos says he keeps in shape, but he avoids eye contact when he makes such a statement, knowing I see the lie. Time was, he would force us to kill each other so that we got so used to the momentary pain that we stopped feeling it, and our victims would later see even a knife to the heart could not stop a Horseman for long. Time was, he would never have been such an easy target, even in a deserted lot. Time was, he would have been the one who proclaimed the destined victories of the Horsemen, instead of me.   
  
But he is rediscovering the pieces of himself that made him great millennia ago. Slowly, Methos is recalling the feel and joy of being a Horseman, ruling over all those inferior beings. Bit by bit, he is remembering the fun of cutting down those who would oppose us. Even now, Methos is sleeping as soundly as he did when the Horsemen were first formed. I have even shown him the dagger I have kept all these millennia, my gift from Cassandra, and he turned his back to me to sleep. He trusts me on a level that speaks of a bond stronger than steel, thicker than blood, and older than iron. I can finally see him as the same god who was so powerful that those pathetic maggots declared that, out of all of us, *Methos* was THEE Death.   
  
As the moon hangs overhead, I realize what I should have known since our reunion: Methos would never truly betray me. He would never intentionally hurt me, or his family. The four Horsemen will be whole again. Methos will lead me to Caspian and Silas. He will plan our wondrous return and we will rule this world again.   
  
My brother is returning to me.  
  
~*~*~*~December 26, 2014CE, Amanda, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
Why won't they tell us anything?   
  
We live in an age of information passing from one corner of the globe to the other in a heartbeat. We have entire libraries on disk now. These days, journalists can transmit images of wars all over the world, and researchers can figure out what led to an ancient Egyptian's death. Great advances in technology make secrets so hard to keep today, allow people to gather unlimited knowledge, and share it all with whomever they choose. For God's sake, I can learn what an obscure immortal ate for breakfast four thousand years ago on some remote, puny island that's probably sunk back into the ocean by now!   
  
But ask what happened to a friend... Ask if those idiot officials know if Methos was even on that plane...   
  
And it's so stupid. This whole thing is stupid.   
  
He is the oldest immortal. He couldn't be dead on a plane, not like this. He did not survive five thousand years of wars and hatred and fire and the game, just to die on some stupid plane. One does not live that long and then... because some twit in a control tower says the visibility isn't bad enough...   
  
He is not dead. Not Methos. He would have seen the danger. He would have known something was going to go wrong. He got off the plane. He wasn't in his seat when the wing of that other plane sliced through and cut-- It was someone else's quickening they caught on security cameras. It was a lot of other immortals making that massive lightning storm, not Methos.   
  
Right now, we are waiting with all the other families outside the cold metal fences of this airport, freezing for nothing. Nick, Duncan, Joe, and I are just wasting our time here. Methos is probably safe somewhere. He's hiding or something. He's relaxing somewhere, watching movies or reading a book. Maybe he got hit by something and is healing away from us. He can't find a phone for some reason, but he is fine.   
  
He is not dead!  
  
And when those imbeciles they call 'experts' these days are done inspecting the scene, they are going say that Adam Pierson was not on that flight. And we'll all go home and curse Methos for putting us through this worry. And then, tomorrow, Nick and I will be cleaning up the Raven and he'll come in for a beer as usual and he'll be whole, intact, and not dead in that wreckage at this godforsaken airport!  
  
Nick holds me a bit tighter. I've tried to explain all this to him before, but I choke on most of the words and keep crying.   
  
I don't know why I'm crying so much. It's not like it's the first time Methos hasn't contacted anyone in less than 24hrs. It's not as if this is the first time that the wing of one plane has sliced through the body of another on the runway, beheading all passengers. It's not like other immortals couldn't have been on that flight, instead of Methos. It's not like, just because he has yet to show up for that early morning meeting to sign those documents so he can move, or because he didn't say anything about not being on that flight, that he was one of those passengers now decapitated in-  
  
HE IS NOT DEAD!  
  
He can't be, not like this.  
  
They're going to tell us, he's not dead.   
  
He just can't be dead. He's Methos...  
  
~*~*~*~March 12, 457CE, Darius, Somewhere in Gaul, close to where Paris is now. ~*~*~*~  
  
I revive in a moist cavern, illuminated by sparse torches on the uneven walls. I feel my head. Whatever damage I sustained has healed, but my hand comes away sticky with drying blood. I vaguely recall falling down a hole. My eyes locate my tormentor, my friend, sitting across from me.  
  
Methos enjoyed watching me fall, no doubt. I have been waiting for a punishment since he came to the church three days ago. I was told that I was screaming for the new oldest immortal, for him, by name and title for weeks. I don't know why I thought of calling for him of all people. My memory of that entire period is unclear. I am not even certain how I know Methos is the oldest immortal now. His presence, however, suggests it is the truth. Word of his new title must be spreading already. Yet, he has never yelled at me for my indiscretion. He has never raised so much as a hand against me, despite the danger in which I have unintentionally put him.   
  
He has barely acknowledged his new, unwanted role. He sat with me while I wept for the innocents I have killed. He told me there was a way to live without reckless violence. He calmed me while I fight a physical battle with an enemy inside my mind. He tried various healing methods before this one. He said we were going to find a cure out here. He commented that I should watch my step. He didn't mention a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere, though.   
  
"Where am I?" I can feel the anger swell inside me. I can imagine fighting Methos, killing him, reveling in the splatter of his blood. But then the image shifts, as they all do since taking that old fool's head, and I am mourning the imagined death of my only remaining friend.   
  
Methos silently watches as I shake my head, trying to lose the turmoil inside.   
  
"Where am I?" I ask again. My voice is as strained as my concentration.  
  
"A magical spring the priests mentioned to me," he answers. His reply is too soft and gentle. "If you immerse yourself in the water, they say you will be healed."  
  
Directly to my right is a small pond, light emanating from somewhere below. Aside from the light, it doesn't appear magical, merely dirty. Perhaps the priests have tired of my ravings and sent us here to grant themselves some peace.  
  
"I think they lie."  
  
"I know." Again, he uses that calm tone, as if he understands the chaos raging within me. "But time is not healing you, and it is difficult to hide your gruesome attempts to extricate your inner tormentors from the others."  
  
"If the priests were dead, they would not be a concern." The voices scream against the statement. I close my eyes and focus on my thoughts until I no longer hear the others. I must thank Methos for showing me this technique.   
  
"I don't believe killing them would show my appreciation for giving you a sanctuary," he says once my eyes are finally open again. "Or for tolerating your mad ravings about immortals."  
  
His patience is remarkable. It always has been. In battle, Methos is the only man I have ever met who can hunger for the fighting and the blood, for the joy of slicing through bone and flesh, and yet, can wait in silence for endless hours without even one muscle twitching in anticipation. I have seen grown warriors break merely because Methos stared at them long enough, his expression strangely cold and amused. I have said it is the face of Death. He has yet to disagree.   
  
Currently, his expression is vastly different than that of Death. He shows more than a little compassion. His eyes are very warm, and it would be hard to imagine him killing a hog, let alone slaughtering an entire village as in the days of old. Or at least it would be hard to imagine such a sight, if I hadn't witnessed it in the past.  
  
"Perhaps killing someone would cleanse me," I suggest. Again, my anger grows and I hunger to watch something die, to conquer a life as I once conquered villages.   
  
"You are in no condition to fight anyone," Methos says while rising to his feet.  
  
"Perhaps you are right," I agree even though a part of me, General Darius, proclaims that I should argue the point. I stand, determined to reclaim who I am from whatever twisted quickening has attacked me. My stance is not as perfect as it was before I challenged the ignorant immortal at the gates of his city. I look at Methos. "Or perhaps all I need is a sword."  
  
Without blinking, my companion pulls a sword from a sheath on his belt, and presents it to me. I approach to collect it. His eyes show no fear, no doubt. I don't understand why he does not fear me. My delirious ramblings will have immortal hunters scouring the globe for him for the rest of his life, and my mood swings have sent priests and furniture flying -literally and figuratively speaking. Still, he acts as if I pose no threat to him, giving me a means and opportunity to end his life.   
  
My eyes fall on the blade in his outstretched hands. This is my sword, the one I used to get myself into this horrid situation, the one I left by the ancient immortal's corpse. I slowly take it from him. "How did you fi--"  
  
"I have my methods."  
  
"Thank you." My voice is not quite my own. I can hear a difference, a certain change in pronunciation. My victim is coming to me again. But I cannot fight him on this. It is not the first time my feelings mirror those of my body's invader. Since Methos has come to help me work through this mess, I have reluctantly realized it happens far too often to be comforting.  
  
"First, try the spring. Use the mediation techniques I have shown you." Methos turns and walks to a rope dangling from a hole in the roof of the cavern. "If it fails, I shall find you a target and we will try your way."  
  
The man has given me a sword and now turns his back on me. He either trusts me beyond understanding or he is even more insane than me. "You will be above ground?"  
  
"I will ensure you are not interrupted." He grabs the rope and begins to climb up to the surface. "If you need help, I will come."  
  
I have a sudden flash of a memory. Methos is looking directly at me. He is speaking of the shock of finding the oldest immortal and learning that he is next to carry such a burden. The scene fades as quickly as it appears, but not before I hear a whispered echo of his voice saying to send for him whenever I need help. But I know he was not speaking to me. Methos spoke to my last victim.   
  
I turn toward the water once my friend is out of the cavern. I walk to it, wanting to find some peace inside my head, to find an end to the chaos, to find answers.  
  
I slip into the spring, with every voice inside agreeing that it will be okay. Methos would never intentionally hurt me. As my greatest friend, he would never betray me like that.  
  
~*~*~*~June 26, 982CE, Silent Bear, Somewhere in what is now North Eastern Manitoba, Canada~*~*~*~  
  
He will betray us.  
  
I can see him through the clearing in the forest. He pretends to be saving young Raven Eye who is struggling in the stream, having walked out too far. Soars With Hawks put him in the danger, most likely. The others would not question their false chief, but I know how easily the men of my tribe can be swayed by his words. Soars With Hawks must have led Raven Eye into the deepest part of the stream while supposedly teaching him how to fish.   
  
He is death to my tribe.  
  
I wait until he sends Raven Eye to shore and turns to retrieve the precious spear Raven Eye received from his father, Charging Deer. The gesture does not fool me. He cannot care for such an object. He has no family, despite what the others in my tribe tell him. He does not understand the true importance of its return to a boy who lost a father. He cannot comprehend the significance of the three different feathers tied at its head. The symbolism of growth Raven Eye shall experience is meaningless to a creature like Soars With Hawks. To him, the spear is merely a weapon that cannot be lost, and the feathers, mere decoration.   
  
He is a killer.  
  
The spear is easier to pull from the depths of the fast flowing stream than he pretends. It is not stuck between rocks as he acts. The others may be fooled by his performance, but I see right through him. While he slowly pulls the spear from the rock floor, I ready my bow and arrow. When I see Soars With Hawks with a triumphant smile on his white face, I release my arrow.  
  
He must not live.  
  
The arrow hits him in the chest and he falls into the water. His arms flail a little, but he has lost his footing and cannot reclaim it. The spirit of the forest, no doubt protecting my tribe, will not allow him to stand again. The current quickly catches hold of his body and carries him away.  
  
He will never return to hurt my tribe.  
  
The others are running in my direction. Raven Eye will understand I could not prevent the loss of his spear; the opportunity was too good to miss. He will see it was good that he did not get a spear tainted by Soars With Hawks. The tribe will thank me for getting rid of the false chief. They will understand why I did it. They will want me as their new chief.  
  
I saved my tribe from his evil.  
  
They will love me for it.  
  
~*~*~*~April 23, 2009CE, Sean Plante, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
"Is this the part of the evening where you threaten my life, should I ever do anything to harm her?"   
  
Methos merely looks at me. His expression is the very definition of innocence. I don't know why he bothers. We both know his past, what kind of cold-blooded killer he once was. It has been clear from the first time we met that he doesn't trust me. Amy's father seems to love me, but Methos usually watches me like a hawk watches its prey, ready to attack at the first opportunity. He usually treats me with just enough civility to satisfy Amy and Joe while completely unnerving me. Tonight has been the exception.   
  
Tonight, he has been nothing but the incarnation of courtesy and kindness. His distrusting eyes have become filled with curiosity. He has held open doors, said 'please' and 'thank-you' throughout the evening, and treated me with a dignity and respect I know he doesn't feel. He even demanded to pay for the meal in a gentle tone that could convince a woman in white gloves and a white silk dress that she needed ketchup on a stick. And now, while Amy has gone with Joe to talk privately, Methos is calmly regarding me from his seat across the table- has been since they left.   
  
"Why would I threaten you?" he asks.  
  
When I first joined the team researching the Methos Chronicles, Timothy Wyatt had warned me that Methos could be a pain in the neck at times. I never thought it would be that bad, not even when I started dating Amy. Three beautiful years later, I still believed things couldn't get that bad. But this is the first dinner I've had with her father and her... friend, and now I know, Timothy was holding back in his description. Those brief times picking up Amy at the bar or library when Methos happened to be there, those I could handle. As cold as he was toward me, the moment was always over quickly. Those moments were usually as he was leaving for the airport to return to his home in London. They were never over quickly enough, but at least it was only a few minutes so I could deal with him. This, though, this is unbearable. This is intolerable. This is an entire night of him acting like I have a shot in hell of getting on his good side. This is Death pretending that he hasn't envisioned thousands of ways he would love to kill me.   
  
"You've never seemed to like me," I reply.  
  
"And you think I threaten everyone I don't like?" He has a smirk on his face, but his eyes contain only minimal amusement. He is still calmly dissecting me.   
  
"So you admit you don't like me?"  
  
"I don't recall ever denying that."  
  
"Why don't you like me? I haven't done anything wrong. And I'm not going to hurt Amy."  
  
He tilts his head to the side, "You always hurt the ones you love."  
  
"Then I'll be the exception to the rule," I state firmly. I prepare myself for his attack. But, instead, he suddenly begins to smile, truly smile. It spreads across his face, and the corners of his eyes crinkle a little. I wonder if I should let my guard down, when he speaks.  
  
"I had a feeling that was the case when I didn't scare you off like the others."  
  
"What? Others?"  
  
"The losers who thought they might be worthy to date Amy, until I showed them the light," he laughs. "Joe will never do it; he doesn't want to offend Amy or push her away by 'sticking his nose in her business'. But somebody has to." "You're still going to threaten me, aren't you?"  
  
I can hear voices approaching. Amy and Joe, my saviours, are returning.  
  
"I never bother with threats," Methos says before gracefully rising from his seat. He looks me straight in the eye, and I don't see curiosity, amusement, or even malice in his eyes. Instead, his eyes convey a sense of unflinching seriousness, which brings the world to a halt and makes me feel as though it is only Methos and I in the entire universe. "I know you love her deeply enough that if you didn't make her happy, you would be in more pain than I could deliver. That is your saving grace."  
  
Before I can respond, barely before I can react, he is saying goodbye to Amy and Joe. Then he is out the door.   
  
Timothy was wrong. Methos isn't a pain in the neck. Methos is a royal, Grade A, confusing beyond words, pain in the butt.  
  
~*~*~*~January 2, 2015CE, Nick Wolfe, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
I can't say I ever liked the guy. Heck, I can honestly say I preferred him anywhere I wasn't. He annoyed me, insulted my decisions, borrowed my things without asking, and if he ever paid for drinks he got from Amanda's club, I would have been the first immortal to permanently die of shock. Methos just had a way of getting under my skin with every visit. He'd make some smart-mouth comment or come in wearing one of my sweaters. And tonight I find out that if I'd never said 'mi casa es su casa' the old geezer would have never touched my stuff, and after he said it to me, I could have taken some of his stuff without asking. He's been dead for days now, and still I feel irritated by him.  
  
To be perfectly fair though, I think he deserved better than this as a send-off. I mean, the initial intentions were good: let everyone who knew Methos or his various incarnations pay respect to their late friend without fear of beheading. That was fine by me. Then came the negotiations with the Watchers. Suddenly, we were going to have a wake so mortals could say goodbye to Adam Pierson early in the evening, and immortals could pay their dues to the oldest of their kind until after the funeral the next day. Then the watchers said they'd discreetly inform all immortals, to ensure that everyone who knew Methos would attend. And for some reason, those mosquitoes think they ought to be invited to record every minute detail, like the event is part of an animal study. The others don't seem to understand why Joe broke out laughing at the funeral home the other day, but I do. It was the funniest thing in the world, listening to MacLeod and Wyatt 'discuss' the situation. Hell, it sounded like two school kids trading lunches. 'I'll give you this if you'll let me have that'. 'No fairs.' I'm a little surprised I didn't start laughing too. Though it wasn't funny in the end, certainly isn't funny now. This wake has turned into a chance for all immortals to look at the specimen that is Methos. Instead of having it in a church (Liam's or Darius'), it's in this mansion, formerly Watcher headquarters. The organization "graciously" offered the property, supposedly because Methos was once a loyal member of their club. I'm sure none of the head watchers thought about how many immortals would possibly be congregating peacefully in one location for the first time. Nor, I'm sure, did they have the ulterior motive of ensuring intense observance of those dozens of gathering immortals. The agreement, struck between Mac and the Watchers, is that Joe, Amy, Sean, and Wyatt are the only watchers "officially" allowed at the wake and funeral. The rest are to stay away, but I'm sure some are hiding in the bushes, taking notes.   
  
The wake has been interesting so far. I didn't think we'd get so many visitors. Sure, Methos was the oldest, but he never seemed to personally know a lot of people... not a lot of people who are still living anyway. He certainly wasn't the type to be surrounded by a lot of friends. But word of the wake was spread, and this building has been packed for most of the night. It seems he made a lasting impression on most people, even if the meeting was brief. There are the DeValincourts who swear Methos helped save their marriage. Stephen Keane claims the old man reminded him about combat and principles. A Gregor-Something says Methos happened to be in his hospital a few months ago, cryptically congratulating him for going back into medicine. We had a call from the Brown family sending their condolences, and a flower arrangement was sent here from the famous model, Maria. Marcus Constantine, an old acquaintance of Methos, is spending his time asking other immortals if they know the relationship between Methos and the little girl who was holding his hand at the time of their death. Judging by the lack of any confident responses, I think this will become the one-thousandth unsolved mystery about Methos. Kit O'Brady was trying to wager on the question, claiming the Methos he knew wouldn't have a problem with the idea. Then there are a few immortals that talk about the Sultan of Sprawl as a wonderful teacher. I think they're insane. There was a woman, one could only describe as mesmerizing, who came, checked the casket, received an envelope from MacLeod, and then left. A family, the Getsburgs, came at the beginning of the evening and stayed just long enough to say good-bye to the deceased. They'd only known Methos as Adam Pierson, a great neighbour, or healer, or someone important. I didn't quit catch the connection, but there were mutterings about a missing 'Peggy' and time treating 'Adam' kindly. MacLeod has told nearly everyone who's walked through the door about all the times Methos miraculously saved his life. Amanda's favourite tale of the night is Methos' noble adventure to save his former wife, Alexa. According to her, the old man was selfless, courageous, and somehow managed to save her life too. And that mirrors what Amy is saying about the freeloading grump. Joe is holed up in a bedroom upstairs, writing the eulogy for tomorrow's service. He stuck around down here for a few hours and then excused himself from having to be near the body of his best friend. Tim, on the other hand, is salivating somewhere in another room, eyeing all the immortals like diamonds. Tonight, his method of dealing with the loss is to submerge himself in a sea of people he may never meet again. He's absorbing every tall tale they give him. Sean, thankfully, is telling everyone the truth about just how aggravating Methos was.   
  
And I am sitting in a small chair, with a plate of veggies and dip, away from the clusters of visitors and only feet from the reason for the wake. I'm not exactly sure how I got here. At some point, between greeting visitors and listening to exaggerated stories of Methos' supposed wit and strength, I gravitated to this seat. From here, I can watch the people when they view Methos. I can see the sadness from loss, or the shock of realizing they knew Methos before, or the disappointment of learning that the man didn't measure up to the myth. I can hear remarks about his sharp-looking suit-- the suit I'm surprised he even owned considering his love of casual wear. Occasionally, I've walked by the casket to ensure Methos' attire is still positioned properly. The high collared shirt has to hide the fatal blow. As well, from my unintentional watch station, I have been keeping a close eye on his Ivanhoe, the weapon by which he neither lived nor died. I've mentioned that to a number of immortals who were surprised we weren't burying it with him. They were even more surprised to learn how often Methos was unarmed. His tendency to enjoy a sunny day unencumbered by weaponry was unbelievable. Come to think of it, most of what I told those immortals seemed to amaze them. I guess they expected to find a legend where there was just a guy. ~*~*~*~April 14, 1994CE, Ian Bancroft, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
Don finally stops talking on the phone. Judging by his grin, he has convinced his young protege to join us this evening. It's only taken about fifteen minutes of coaxing and finagling, but it looks like I shall meet Adam Pierson at last.  
  
"I'll set up the table," I shout to Don.   
  
"Then I shall get the food," he replies, turning from the front desk and beginning his stroll down the main aisle. "Adam will arrive shortly. He knows of the passage and has a key."  
  
I am tempted to question giving so much to Adam so soon, but I doubt Don will even listen. The few weeks I have spent helping Don prepare for his move from London to Paris have been filled with stories praising his student. This young watcher has apparently made great advances with the Methos Chronicles. Though I have yet to hear other watchers describe his theories and findings to be as great as Don claims them to be. As far as I can tell, the most impressive feat this boy has accomplished was making Don seem young again. I had no idea my dear friend was so interested in football or that he would even play the sport at his age. Still, as I make my way through the rows of bookcases toward the passage leading to the cellar of Shakespeare & Company, I recall Don's seemingly endless tales of going to this game or that one, or of playing with Adam on more than one occasion. I have even seen a framed photograph proclaiming the pleasure and pride he has discovered in Adam's company. A man after my own heart, Don has preferred books to computers, but today he was happily tinkering with the computer in my-- in his new office. He said he was going to surprise Adam by learning how to work "these contraptions."   
  
I walk down the stairs, observing the room. Before I relinquish the keys to the store, I must remember to warn Don about the winter floods in Paris. The documents lying about are far more valuable than their arrangement suggests. I have been meaning to clean up the mess since Darius' passing. I doubt I will get the chance before I leave to watch Mai Ling. I can only hope Adam is as concerned about preserving papers as Don says he is about saving backup disks. While Don will certainly assure me that Adam is simply wonderful with caring for books and old scrolls, my opinion of the young researcher isn't so biased.   
  
I pull out the table, cards, and the betting chips. It should be an interesting night. I will be able to compare the reality to the fantasy Don has presented me, all while winning this poker game. Don said Adam wasn't great at poker and that we should be patient and understanding. I will leave that to Joe. I, however, will be seeing if the man deserves to be treated as the son Don never had, as seems to be the case. I will see if he does this organization proud.  
  
Personally, I find that the boy sounds a bit more interested in technology than history. From what I've learnt from others, he is shy, and more than willing to simply blend in with the background rather than speak up. There is little question as to why he chose not to enter into fieldwork. It is hardly the behaviour becoming of an individual charged with a responsibility as sacred as that of a watcher. I also have my doubts regarding his abilities. Why would a serious researcher work so hard for a position, which only allows him to research an immortal no one has seen in centuries? It is quite possible that all Adam is doing is re-organizing the previous chronicle entries, and claiming progress. He chose an easy assignment, probably relies on computers to do the work instead of bothering to look in a book for the answer himself. Young people today have no desire to work hard and lack a decent respect for the methods that have served us well for ages. I doubt Adam Pierson is any different.  
  
~*~*~*~April 21, 1543CE, Elizabeth Herrington, Just outside of Bristol, England~*~*~*~  
  
Margaret and I peer out the window to see that our husbands have returned. Adam slowly climbs down from the horse carriage and makes his way to our home. It is only as the light from the setting sun graces his beautiful face, that I realize how utterly dirty he is. Mud and grime mar his features and coat his clothes. I hurry to the door to make sure he is fine.  
  
"Nothing to worry about," he calls as I approach. "Went after a horse who liked the muddy fields on the east part of town. Harry didn't fend that much better."  
  
Margaret goes to her husband, who is still sitting on the horse carriage. They talk briefly as I inspect my husband, no telling how many gashes he is hiding to protect his secret. His hands gently clasp mine, and I look into his eyes.  
  
"It will be okay," he says gently. Then he turns and together we say our farewells as Margaret and Harry finally leave for their house. "The worst of it was a stubbed toe."  
  
"The worst for a regular man or the worst for you?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. It would not be the first time Methos has understated the extent of his injuries. Not that I particularly mind him shielding me from this unsettling aspect of his life. The few times he has returned from dueling another immortal, I was grateful for his constant statement "I am fine," his determination to mop up blood from still bleeding wounds, and to clean cuts on his own. He has spared me much unpleasantness. Most times, in situations like this one, he will claim good health and later reveal broken bones or injuries which would force mortal men to lie down in agony. I try not to wonder how he has gotten used to such pain.  
  
"A 'regular' man would have been better off, I'm afraid." Adam wears the endearing smile I have always loved. We walk into the house. "How long would you complain about a stubbed toe?"  
  
"Not long," I answer, gauging his expression and reaction. "How long would you?"  
  
"Less than a heartbeat, if I'm not surrounded by Harry and friends."  
  
"How long did you complain today?"  
  
"Long enough that they have decided I am a bit of a baby," he states softly.   
  
"But you are, dear," I laugh. He approaches as if to give me a hug. "First, you need a bath. Then, perhaps, I shall 'comfort' the baby."  
  
"Ah, two things of which I am in dire need." I get the water ready for the bath. Adam looks at the pies I baked today. "Did Margaret dare help you? Or are they safe to eat?"  
  
"Adam Herrington, they would be fine either way. Margaret is not a bad cook." I try to give him a stern look, but he still wears that smile. I have a hard time competing with such a playful grin. It reminds me why I married him six years ago. "Besides, we were sewing while you were away."  
  
"Sewing translates into talking of things one does not repeat to one's husband, I believe." Though having clearly considered sitting in his filthy clothes and devouring at least one of my pies, Adam undresses while I finish preparing the bath.   
  
"We were not gossiping," I reply, slightly concerned if the water is too cold for my husband. Adam has said that he prefers warm baths, but has little problem with cold ones as long as he gets clean. He shivers a bit as he steps in the water, but eases down with a sigh. I set the kettle on the stove to add more hot water soon.   
  
"Of course, you weren't gossiping, Izzy." He closes his eyes and relaxes. "What did you two discuss then? Not our farm again, I hope. Hate to hear Harry go on and on about my antiquated techniques."   
  
I pull a chair over to the bath. Without opening his eyes, my Adam reaches a hand out and waits until I grab it. Then he gives my hand a light squeeze and holds it, the smile still on his face. "Margaret told me about the trips to the new world," I tell him. His grip tightens slightly. "She talked about the rumoured riches they have discovered there and the savages-"  
  
"They're not savages," he says firmly. "I have told you-"  
  
"I know. I tried to suggest the truth to Margaret." I use my other hand to soothe his hand. "She was not interested in hearing that the Indians are not barbarians. I'm sorry."  
  
"It's not your fault, love." He turns his head and looks at me. "If she had seen them as I have, she would see the truth. Fortunately for the world, Mrs. Hiram is not immortal and therefore cannot pester those poor Indians for as long as I did."  
  
Methos has told bits of his past. I know he glazes over most of it, partly to protect me from the ugliness of immortality, and partly to avoid admitting to the ugliness of his survival. His decades spent in the New World, for example, have became nothing more than a simple mention of a bad trip on a boat, alternate living conditions with and without the natives, and a long trip back to our shores with Vikings. He says that the language and customs of the Indians are vastly different than ours, but inside, we are the same. He also says his latest trips on boats have left him with a hatred for the vessels. The entire long experience has left him scarred. Yet, he provides no details, nor does he read his precious journals to me. I do not ask him to. Truth be told, I don't want him to. I don't care to hear of his past lives, or adventures or loves. I may have married my Adam and all the history that comes with him, but I do not need to be reminded that he is Methos, an immortal killer of countless people and widower of countless wives from countless centuries.   
  
I rise to retrieve the kettle and Adam begins cleaning himself. I know he wishes I would say something now. If I were to look at him, I would see a hopeful expression upon his face, begging me to say something, anything as long as it does not condemn him for being so blunt about his immortality. For a reason I cannot explain, I tend to become quite silent at times like this. I can't seem to speak when he mentions his long life in such a clear manner. I can only assume it has something to do with the unpleasant reality that I will die and he will live forever.  
  
"What else did you discuss, love?" The voice dragging me from my thoughts is filled with apprehension.  
  
"We wondered when our strong, tough men would return." I turn with a smile I can almost feel completely and pour hot water into his bath. "But I will settle for you."  
  
"I help them repair a fence and recover an escaped horse, and I will forever hear of my momentary loss of manliness." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.  
  
"You are still quite the man to me."   
  
Finally, his expression warms entirely and the smile is now whole and smug. "And you are still a goddess to me."  
  
And I remember why I married Adam, and why I should stay married to him, despite what he is.  
  
~*~*~*~February 20, 1996CE, Marseille, France, Alexa Bond~*~*~*~  
  
I finally emerge from the bathroom to see him sitting on our hotel bed. His coat is done up. His hands tightly clasped on his lap. His gloves are lying beside him. His packed luggage waits by his boot-clad feet. His expression is sullen but certain.  
  
"You're leaving." The statement is clearer and stronger than I'd expected. My throat is sore from the coughs, which resulted from the sobs that have also left my eyes red and slightly swollen. Still the words, infused with certainty, are not the whisperings that have passed my lips earlier this evening. Though my eyes still blink as my mind struggles to understand all that Adam has told me, my muted murmurs of inquiry are gone. I think I have passed the point of being able to cry.   
  
Adam is not, however. A few tears escape his eyes and follow the paths of their ancestors down his cheeks. He sniffs loudly as he stands. With a gruff voice and quivering lips, he says, "It's for the best."  
  
There are thousands of sentences that could be uttered by either one of us. We could say countless phrases, or questions, or clichŽs to fill the expectant silence hanging painfully between us. So many things we could do to end this pregnant pause, to close the unbearable distance separating us, that it is mind-boggling. But, frozen we remain. Him at the bed in which we slept, me at the entrance of the bathroom in which we cleansed each other, and neither of us able to budge or speak. All because I wanted to open a silly taped box, saw a cut heal, heard a tale of immortality, and locked myself in the bathroom to digest the information and cry in my confusion.  
  
I had told him to leave before I reached the bathroom. I think I told him to go to Hell too. I'm not sure. It's kind of a blur. I know I yelled and he kept low; he was kneeling or shrinking on the bed, his eyes downcast during most of his confession. He didn't race after me, or try to hold me. He hasn't touched me since I saw his finger heal. He said he'd wanted to tell me, or possibly tried to... my crying made it hard to hear what he said at times. Adam did say a lot though.   
  
Yet, for all his previous pleas to be given another chance, he seems to have given up. For all my insistence that he just go, I'm having doubts. It doesn't make sense. None of this does. But I know it will never sense if he leaves, if he never answers all my questions; if I let him go, never knowing why he loved me. For, while everything about this world is now skewed, I know with great certainty that he loved me. When I look at his weepy eyes now, I see the man who believes that a life without me is unthinkable. I see a man about to walk into the abyss because I told him to.  
  
Adam sniffs again before glancing at his bags and then back at me. "The rest of the trip is paid for. You can go wherever you like. I'll cover the cost. You... um, you deserve it and I do love you." He pauses to swallow a painful lump in his throat. "I am sorry."  
  
"Don't."  
  
"I have to, 'Lexa. It's-- Your reaction, this whole situation, I- It's okay. I do understand."  
  
"I don't," I respond, much to his obvious surprise. "I'm not sure about... anything, really. But what you've done, how you've made me feel... I don't care what you are. I don't want you to leave now."  
  
"'Lexa," he says hesitantly. His moist eyes are pleading for comprehension as badly as I am. "It's better this way."  
  
"Stay."  
  
Fiercely shaking his head, he turns to pick up his bags. "You'll change your mind. You don't understand yet."  
  
"Then let me understand." Finally able to move, I approach the man I thought I knew. "You can't tell me so little and then leave. I want to know who you are, who's been showing me the world, who I've been living with and loving for the past four months. I want you to tell me everything."  
  
"You'll want me to leave. It's okay." He continues to avoid eye contact with me.  
  
"Let me decide what I want," I demand. I may not be able to fend off death much longer, but I can still handle my Adam. "I deserve that much. Stay and explain everything to me."  
  
"You don't-"  
  
I use my hand to gently turn his face to look at mine, to see the sincerity and strength present in me. "I do." I pause, desperately trying to recall what he said his real name was. "Please Methos?"  
  
Vaguely I remember a part of his rushed confession stating his age, but the man before me doesn't seem like he has five thousand years of experience. The eyes searching mine scream with insecurity and fear. The increased shaky breath and trembling lower lip enforce the idea that he's no better prepared for this moment than I am. "You have no idea how much I would love to." The relieved smile lasts only a second on his lips before his eyes grow wide, as though noticing a huge mistake. "Wait, no. I-"   
  
I cup his face in my hands. "What?"  
  
His breathing is becoming frantic and he closes his eyes to stop the fresh batch of tears building there. "No, this is wrong. It, it's better if I leave, safer."  
  
"Whatever it is, I can handle it," I assure him.  
  
Gingerly the immortal, as he would be called, wraps his soft hands around my wrists, but doesn't pull my hands away from his face. "No. What you see-- the truth, what I am, my life, no one likes it. It's ugly; all of it, all of-" He stops, though I can tell the word 'me' is on the tip of his tongue.   
  
"You look beautiful to me, Methos."   
  
There are times when words have a power beyond one's understanding, when their effect is profound and holy. A simple sentence can inspire and motivate, or raise spirits from the depths of darkness; can force a man to his knees in fear or gratitude, or slow hearts and calm nerves like a miraculous balm. Sometimes even repeated phrases, seemingly without any significant meaning or birth, can shatter the most fortified barriers, and rock-hard resolve crumbles like ashes.   
  
"It's been so long since anyone's even hinted... I will never leave you, as long as you want me near." Saline drops are freely evacuating their ocular prisons while breaths become deeper, calmer. Methos bites his lip as he slowly opens his eyes, as if he's afraid this is a dream. Holding my gaze, the man I loved moves his hands to cup my face; a bittersweet smile dares to emerge. "What did I ever do to deserve perfection like you?"  
  
I pretend to think, though I'm sure the smile slowly appearing on my face belies my act. "I don't know yet. But I can't wait for you to tell me."  
  
~*~*~*~November 23, 1996CE, Richard "Richie" Ryan, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
Why isn't the fact that he's unarmed comforting me?   
  
I'm the one with a weapon and he's the one with his back turned, ripe for a quick beheading. Still I enter his home cautiously, half believing that a sword will miraculously appear in his hand to chop my head off.   
  
"So," Methos calmly says, finally turning around and acknowledging my presence again. "Are you here to lecture or challenge?"   
  
"I'm here to understand," I respond. He smiles smugly at that and crosses his arms over his chest. "I just need some answers."  
  
He nods. "In other words, you're waiting for more information before you make your self-righteous judgment on my life."  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"Look, if you want to save us both a bit of time and trouble, you can call me a heartless bastard right now, and storm out with a customary threat."   
  
"I'm not trying to judge you," I insist. "I'm trying to figure out what happened."  
  
His sickening smile widens. "What happened was word about my adolescence spread, Noble Mac didn't approve and joined forces with a former victim of mine who wanted me dead. Then there was a reunion, a betrayal, and finally the much rejoiced burial of my brothers; all of which, I got to enjoy alone with a lot of people despising me. Ya shoulda been there, it was loads of fun."  
  
That much I knew. Joe filled me in yesterday, without the dripping sarcasm. I had to call him in London because the earth will stop spinning before Mac ever tells me exactly what's going on when I ask him. But Joe told me about a Methos who manipulated friends, and let people die. He talked about some cruel monster that stole and raped, murdered and destroyed without a second thought. And all I can remember is Methos as the relaxed old man who preferred lounging to fighting, who risked his life to save friends he'd known for only a few months. Joe says the same man Maria called her savior and hero is Death of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse. I came here to make sense of it all. Not to mention that it's a good way to keep my mind off Mac's fight with Consone. They should be facing each other on that Mysterious circle thing right now.  
  
"I'll take the lecture over the challenge, if it helps you decide," Methos offers nonchalantly. I must have been silent too long.  
  
"Well, I don't want either one," I tell him, hoping he'll get the idea in his thick skull. "I came to hear your side of things."  
  
"My side?" The old man snorts as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.   
  
"Yeah, your side. I'm tryin' to be nice and give you the chance to-"  
  
"To explain myself to you," he snaps. I involuntarily swallow the rest of what I was going to say. Methos' whole physique has changed. The smile is gone, replaced with a cruel variation of a frown. Methos' eyes are dark slits, gleaming with restrained anger. His face is cold, and his body suddenly seems larger and way more dangerous than I thought possible. Just the hard glare he gives me makes me feel small, like helpless prey with the predator towering over him. "You know, I am sick and tired of you people acting like you're doing me a bloody favour by *allowing* me to justify my life to you. Contrary to your 'holier than thou' attitudes, you're all worse than me by far."  
  
Now I'm sure that in the future I will ask myself just what the hell I was thinking at this point, but my angry reaction is swift and without fear. "How the hell do you figure that?" I'm pretty sure I'm not thinking right now because I have taken a couple steps closer to death, literally. "I didn't go around raping people or torching villages."  
  
"You were a thief and headhunter, right?" Methos calmly retorts. His expression isn't any less menacing.  
  
"Yeah so?" I don't see what that has to do with anything.   
  
"SO, you were taught not to steal or kill by your foster families or society, or... someone. Yet, you turned your back on all those lessons. You committed those crimes knowing full well you shouldn't." His glare is piercing. Though I have no idea what his point is supposed to be.  
  
"Okay," I respond hesitantly. "And you didn't know what you were doing was wrong?"  
  
"No," Methos firmly replies. "Society and families were cheering me on."  
  
"What?" This guy is unbelievable.  
  
"Crowds love you when you race motorcycles because you're good at it. I was Death because I was good at it."  
  
"You- you killed thousands of people," I stammer. "That's not good. Th-that's-- racing motorcycles isn't the same thing. People don't have funerals because I cross a finish line first." I am waiting for comprehension to show in his eyes. "You destroyed lives. You ended lives." It's like talking to wall. "That's not something to be proud of."  
  
"Oh, but you see it was." He speaks slowly and precisely, like he's explaining things to a child, which, I guess in his mind, I am. "There was a time when I was achieving my potential, when I had the power and fame family and friends dreamt for me. I was a god to people, and reigning over two continents for over a thousand years in the Bronze Age isn't an easy task. You claim ruling the world now is a crazy pipe dream; I know how to do, and I can do it, again. History represses and glosses over the things I did because they transcend your understanding and belief. But back then, I was revered for what I could do. I belonged to a family that loved and forgave me no matter what. Cities gave me tributes and chieftains gave me their virgin daughters. When I rode with the Horsemen, I was doing what I was taught to do, and being who I was supposed to be, and I was the best. And I stopped."  
  
"What you did was wrong."  
  
"You know," his voice is calm and low. "The only people who told me that back then, were the same ones I was killing." Methos takes a step closer to me. "Now why would I listen to them?"  
  
He stares me straight in the eye. I can only blink. "Uh, 'cause killing people is wrong, now and thousands of years ago?"  
  
"I know it was wrong, but that's besides the point!" Methos yells at me. His eyes burn with rage, but it only serves to push me further. No fear.  
  
"And what is the point?" I shout back, putting my hands on my hips. I'm not about to back down. "You were Death for kicks?"  
  
Methos runs his hand over his face. "It's like talking to a bloody wall," he says while turning and walking into his living room.   
  
"Hey, I came back to Paris, feeling full of inner peace, and find out the guy who saved Mac from the dark quickening might have been trying to end the world." Methos is pacing in between his furniture. I'm not sure he's still listening. "Mac says he needs to figure things out before he can explain them to me. Joe can only say that you used to be a cold-blooded killer and rapist, but now he's pretty sure you're not. So I come here, trying to understand why one day you're diving into a pool to rescue a girl you've never met and the next, you're saying your special gift is slaughtering people!" His forehead crinkles in concentration. "I don't know what your problem is, but I am trying to figure it out."  
  
"Maria? The model, right?"  
  
Now I rub my face, thinking I'm talking to a wall again. "Yeah, the model."  
  
After a few moments, the creases on his brow give way, and his face relaxes into its usual, non-menacing visage. Calmly, he sits in a large stiff-looking chair. "I'm used to people coming to condemn me. Friends, strangers, students, they somehow find out and then come with their minds made up and their swords sharpened. I forgot you're different." I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an apology. Methos sighs. "I know I deserved to be killed back then. I can't honestly say that I'm ashamed of everything that happened, but I do wish I'd known better, that I'd stopped sooner. I left the Horsemen because I was bored and felt isolated, like there was so much I was missing in life." Shrugging once, he continues. "I was right. I learnt and I changed, with no light quickening to help me through it. And two thousand years later, I still get friends and their friends calling me evil, and believing I betrayed them because I didn't introduce myself as Death."  
  
"Oh." I walk over to his couch and slowly sit down. "They all chose the challenge over the lecture?"  
  
"Alexa was the exception. 99% of the time people pick the challenge, even when they start off with a lecture."  
  
"Well, if this is the way you usually explain things, I can see why." I watch as he tilts his head slightly.  
  
"I suppose I was too confrontational this time around."  
  
"I'll say." After a moment's silent reflection, I continue. "I think I get it now. Your side, I mean. I don't go around telling everyone I used to steal. I get mad anytime people assume I was the thief, just 'cause of my past. And if, in fifty years, everyone was telling me that riding a motorcycle was a sin, I guess I'd feel the same as you. I don't know how easy it would be to change though, to just give up something I'm good at." I watch his reaction, knowing he'd catch the implication.  
  
The windows lining the wall behind Methos suddenly light up and then we hear the roar of thunder. The lights in this apartment flutter briefly. Methos seems oblivious to the storm. 'Course he doesn't have a wet ride home. I hope it isn't hindering Mac's fight.  
  
"It's easy when you don't realize it's happening. Ethics and values shift over time. Then one day someone suggests doing something, and you can't fathom why they don't see it's wrong, or why you didn't see it was wrong beforehand."  
  
"But Kronos did tempt you." I meant that as a question, but it comes out as a statement.  
  
Methos grimaces before shaking his head. "It's hard to accept mediocrity and knowing you're a disappointment to most people, but I wasn't all that interested in reliving my youth."  
  
"I wouldn't call you 'mediocre', old man."  
  
He continues as though he didn't hear the comment. "The problem was all choices gave great odds on me dying. It became one of those 'death before dishonour' situations. And what was the greater dishonour: betraying and killing family or killing millions of strangers? It's a good thing I wasn't closer to Silas or Caspian."   
  
"What if you were?"  
  
"What's past is past." Rising from his seat, Methos looks at me expectantly. "You probably want to go home before the weather gets any worse."  
  
I can tell from his tone that the conversation's over and it's not likely we'll be continuing this discussion any time soon. At least I have a better idea who's standing before me now. He's not exactly a saint, but he's not Satan either. Though he isn't a guy anyone should mess with, considering his apparent talent. May be that's why I can't really relax even when he's unarmed.  
  
I stand up, already preparing myself for the rain awaiting me. "Yeah, I should go. Gotta check on Mac, give Joe a call. See when he's coming to town."  
  
"Tell me when he gets in, we'll have coffee."  
  
I don't think I can look or feel any more surprised. "Coffee? Not beer?"  
  
There's an answering smirk and a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Things change."   
  
~*~*~*~January 3, 2015CE, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
The journal lies heavy in my lap. It is smaller than I'd expected. Doesn't look how I expected. It was easier to find than I expected too. Of course, when has anything related to Methos been how I expected?   
  
Hell, I thought I'd have to search his closet for hours to find a suit for his funeral. Instead, Methos had made it hard to miss. Hanging between dark-coloured shirts, the suit (an expensive work of art with appropriate, and no less costly shirt and tie) had been placed in an eye-catching white protective plastic cover with "The Last Suit I'll Ever Wear" scrawled on the cover in black permanent marker. While the book lying in my lap now was not as conspicuous, it had been in plain view as well. I found it lying unimpressively on a night table in his bedroom area-- the man never liked sleeping in a closed room, always needed a lot of visible space.   
  
I am still sitting in that room. Once I'd found the journal, I couldn't simply tuck it under my arm, grab the suit and leave. I could barely walk when I'd pulled the book off the table and realized what it was. I pretty much collapsed on to Methos' bed- a bed he'd tidied. Before my legs gave out and I nearly landed on the suit I had laid there, the bed had been immaculate. It was, once again, so unexpected from Methos that I'd decided to snoop, to find answers to an ancient immortal puzzle. The journal looked so regular. I just wanted to see what Methos had been reading, and the first page I glanced at told me that this book wasn't one he merely read.   
  
Opening the journal again, the script captures my attention once more. My initial, but brief glimpse of the text was of a short paragraph written in Latin. This more attentive inspection of Methos' writings reveals he began this journal shortly before he'd saved Joe's daughter- an event that, if I'm translating correctly, left him hoping he would be 'right for once when it's important and Amy will come back to her father someday.' The old man wrote in several languages, some of which I do not recognize. He also liked to change languages mid-sentence. I flip a few pages, noting the gaps between recorded dates. I would say the old man only documented the most important parts of his life, but I am currently reading Joe's recipe for barbeque sauce and spare ribs. Of course, perhaps that and the small Maple leaf he'd pressed between two pages earlier in the book were important to him. If only the pages around the leaf had words I could decipher, then I could understand what the significance of that leaf was.   
  
I flip a few more pages when something catches my eye; it's the coaster O'Rourke had left at my barge. The simple instructions on it remain as clear as they did years ago when he wrote them with Amanda's lipstick. The surrounding pages are difficult to read. Methos' writing is fast and compressed here, as if he'd been in a fury to jot down the experience. Words blend into one another in certain areas, and, in other parts, he's conveniently decided to switch to more markings I've never seen before. Some sections I can make out, brief sentences that provide me with no clue as to what was going through his mind. Instead, they serve as reminders of moments I remember far too clearly. This segment is about what was said as he was leaving the barge after O'Rourke's death. The memory, vivid and overwhelming, comes to me unbidden.  
  
I remember he was past the gangplank when I finally caught him, needing to apologize if I'd hurt him. That night, I had told Methos that I didn't know who or what he was, and he'd been uncharacteristically quiet and somber for the rest of the evening. After Methos had said his good-byes, I learnt that, a few weeks earlier, Joe had told the old enigma the same thing and the reaction had not been pleasant. In my mind, I can clearly see the old man's facial expressions after I'd apologized. There was confusion and wonder, amusement and sorrow. His reply, when it finally came, was as harsh and honest as he'd intended it. The cruel response echoes in my head even now, despite my attempts to silence it.   
  
"You misguided, guilt-ridden sod, do you even know what you're apologizing for?"  
  
He had patiently listened to my answer, "We said we didn't know you, but that's not really true."  
  
"It is true, you bloody fool." I braced myself for his wrath at that point. I saw the disgust in his face, and knew he needed to unburden his soul of something that weighed heavily upon it. When Methos needs to get something off his chest, he'll blindly cut out your heart to do it, if need be. My heart was within easy reach. "Who knows anyone? I don't know you. Haven't got a clue why you suddenly decided against suicide tonight, but I know it wasn't my doing. I don't know Joe. Best friends didn't know he had a daughter. So, why the hell should you know me? I'm over five thousand years old; you could *never* know me!"  
  
"Then why are you so upset? If you don't expect us to ever know-"  
  
"Because I hate that truth, okay? It hurts a hundred times more to be unknown than it does to not know. I could tell you the story of my life, Mac, spare no detail, and you'd never understand. To you, five thousand years is more a number than it is time I've spent living and- it's not your fault. You cannot begin to fathom the experience of a life that long. The effects, what has to be done... I don't understand me sometimes. So, how could you ever know me, know what I'll do or why? It'll never happen. And it hurts to be reminded of that fact, okay? I hate hearing it." Methos had paused then, seemed to gauge my reaction before sighing. "But I hate you feeling guilty over things you can't change even more. Don't apologize; you didn't know." With that, he had patted me on the shoulder and then, marched away to his SUV, leaving me lost at the foot of the gangplank.   
  
And now I have the means to read a portion of the story of his life. Not that I need to read it all to know the important things about Methos. He was my greatest friend, and he never intentionally betrayed or hurt those for whom he truly cared.  
  
More pages pass through my hands before my eyes finally spot an entry that can answer a question that has plagued me since Methos uttered the unforgettable and powerful words, "you are too important to lose." Thankfully, Methos has chosen to record these thoughts in languages I know perfectly. I idly wonder if my friend purposefully wrote it this way, so I could read it when he was gone. The passage starts off interestingly enough, 'like being ruler of the known world, being immortal would be far more tolerable if I didn't have to fight all the time just to keep the position.' A brief description of his opponent's "abysmal" fighting "technique, for lack of a better term" follows. Then, the important part begins.   
  
"The highlander- big surprise- seems to think I don't understand the ramifications of my actions. I guess he's taken the fact, that no one person can change the course of history, to mean I consider lives to be unimportant. I must remember never to mention that everyone is as significant in the world as a grain of sand is in the desert. He'd never comprehend; I could never explain it to him. I told him once that he was too important to lose, to tell him that everyone else is too important to lose as well, and then say that our impact in history is miniscule at best... I can imagine his Scottish head exploding. Not pretty. Besides, everyone wants the 5,000-year-old sage to agree with him or her, not the other way around. I can hear him droning on and on about how every life is vital to the world- I should buy him a soapbox. I could try yakking about my view, but that'll just lead to others confusing me with my spotlighted alter ego. I prefer to stay safely in its shadow, thank you very much. So, I'll just let the youth ramble on instead. He doesn't need to know that individuals are essential because no one person is ever truly separate from others. There is always a connection with friends or strangers. When one person dies, a gaping hole is left in the fabric of the world and society has to fill it."  
  
I am tempted not to continue reading. The topic of death is not one I prefer these days. Yet, these are Methos' views on the subject and I am too morbidly curious to stop myself.  
  
"Okay, there's always going to be a rough patch, but the survivours will muddle through. Millennia of wars, pandemics, and natural disasters killing billions upon billions of people and the world still turning proves that's true. When Duncan or Joe dies, it will take time to mend the tear, but it will be stitched shut. People will rise to the challenge, friends will change, and the remaining population will find a way to replace our fallen. The wound will be healed and, for generations to come, it will be regarded as only a scar with a story, if a record of said story still remains in the future, of course. But there's no need to tell Duncan that."   
  
My fingers pass over the written pages in the journal again. I'm not sure he was right. I will have to learn his languages in order to read more of his thoughts. Perhaps Joe can help. He deserves to see this, and I'm sure Methos would have wanted it this way.   
  
I stand up, preparing to leave with the suit draped over the arm holding his journal. My free hand smoothes out the wrinkles I left by sitting on his bed. I know it's a superfluous act. In a few days, we'll be packing these sheets in boxes to give to charity and the wrinkles won't matter. But Methos had made his bed and I can't leave it messy.  
  
~*~*~*~December 24, 2015, Cassandra, Donovan Woods, Scotland~*~*~*~  
  
Morbid curiosity.   
  
That is the only reason I still have this envelope and the letter it contains. It's the only excuse for its survival. I should have thrown it away or torn it apart, tossed it in a fire and rejoiced as it was reduced to ashes. Instead, I have kept it in one location or another in my home, allowing it to collect dust. Now, at the one-year anniversary of its author's death, I am finally opening it.  
  
Masochistic curiosity.  
  
That is the only explanation for my desire to read what the disgusting monster wrote. It's the only motivation that could have grown to unbearable heights and forced me to even entertain the idea of viewing the contents of the envelope. Methos' letter may be a list of regrets, such as my escape or the deaths of his brothers. He may have written about what positions he preferred me to take when I was his slave. Perhaps the beast was cruel enough to write about how my mentor and father died, what tortures they employed on such a kind and brave healer. Still, I feel compelled to finally read the letter Duncan gave me at the creature's wake.  
  
My fingers brush over the front of the envelope. I can feel the indents made by my name here. The style he used is far more elegant than I thought he could manage. Each letter appears regal. Steeling myself for its contents, I withdraw the letter from the depths of its paper prison.   
  
The paper is of good quality, and the writing is neat. It is not as elegant as what was used for the envelope, but I didn't truly expect much else.   
  
"Dear, dear Cassandra," it begins, as though we were somehow close friends.  
  
It continues, "What could I write that you would read? What do I write to ensure this letter does not land in a fire with my efforts turning into nothing more than blackened ashes? What truths could I tell that would make you stop regretting your decision to let me live? What can I write that you would tolerate reading? What words to put in this well-intentioned monstrosity that would repair any of the damage I have done?  
  
"Nothing," he answers his own questions correctly. The letter doesn't stop there though, "There are no words. No phrases. No vows or promises. I have tried writing this letter over thirty times and I still can't think of one thing that could guarantee any of that. The only thing you'd like to read is that I have been decapitated, my cursed quickening lost and unable to infect anyone. There's no point in denying that. Nor is there any point in denying the fact that you may very well be reading this because I am dead. Perhaps I finally found the courage to face you and deliver this letter. Just to show you how serious and respectful I am about this situation, I forgot my usual casual wear. Instead, I was dressed in the expensive suit I purchased specifically for this event when I came to your home."  
  
I remember how his corpse was clad at his wake; his suit was finely made of good material. Duncan had said he'd found this envelope in Methos' suit. I'm sure Duncan thought I would destroy it without bothering to check the contents. Still, he gave it to me and then left me without another word.   
  
I turn my attention back to Methos' recorded message. "Perhaps you killed me after I gave you this, believing it to be harmful. Perhaps you caught me running in terror upon realizing what insane act I was performing, and you challenged me then. I'd like to say I would have offered you my head, unable to fight you. But, then again, I may be dead by your hand now and you would know the truth from experience. If this is so, I am sorry you are cursed by me again."  
  
He forever curses me, even without his despicable quickening inside me.   
  
Still he writes, "Another sorry. It's one more to add to your growing Mount Everest. The word is almost meaningless coming from me, I'm sure. Completely useless, I know. It heals nothing and insults us both. For you want my head, not an apology you can't allow yourself to believe. And I want... it doesn't matter.   
  
"I could foolishly cite all moments that prove I've changed in the past two thousand years, but I doubt you'd believe any of them and I don't care to have you judge those memories. I could tell you about my hardships, to demonstrate that karma is true. Of course, I'm sure I could never have suffered enough pain in your eyes. How could I? I was never in your exact position with Death as my captor and torturer. So, instead, I offer you an answer to a question I'm sure you've often wondered: Why you?  
  
"Why did I do what I did to you? Why were you picked as my target? Why did I want to hurt you, in particular? Why were you the focus of my attention? Why did I 'brainwash' you into not fighting me? Why, why, why, why you?"  
  
I can't stop reading this dribble now. Even though I know he lies constantly, speaks untruths to manipulate people to his will, I want to know his reasoning. Let it be blunt and cut me like always. Or let it be gentle and cut me like always. I want to read the rest of this scripted torture. Masochistic curiosity strikes again.  
  
"I know you will never believe this, but I never truly hated you. Nor did I ever want to hurt you. You were someone, something that could not exist according to my teachings. I can no longer recall where I got my ideas about the world, the treatment of slaves or women, immortality, or appropriate behaviour. I do remember that it was a great mŽlange of people who lead me to believe that you could not be. Immortals were demons to be feared or used, not human people who were trusted or healed wounds of fellow slaves. Women were not strong, and they cried because they knew they were unworthy. It was never because I was unworthy. You unknowingly and relentlessly confounded me. You didn't fit in my perceived world, despite my many attempts to force you to. At first, I was crude in my efforts to understand how you defied the way of the world. I just wanted you to bend, not break, into someone I could understand. For so long, what I did to you was motivated by a desperate, childish, and admittedly stupid desire to solve the anomaly that threatened the very foundation of my knowledge of the universe and its laws. Someone like you couldn't exist unless everything I knew as true and good was wrong. Then, perhaps what you find to be my most appalling tactic, I tried to be kind to coax the answers from you. Only I found I liked your world far better than my own. Yours didn't require constant fighting to maintain it. Yours had peace, and caring, and...  
  
"I won't insult you by claiming that I loved you. I don't think I even knew what that emotion really was back then. However, I did care for you in an ignorant and cowardly fashion. I always had this idea I could protect you, even while I hurt you, because I knew what I was doing and how much you could take. Yes, it was stupid and certainly isn't an acceptable excuse. But my goal was always to keep you alive and well. When I saw you run from Kronos' tent, I silenced myself to allow your escape. I hoped you'd find what I selfishly could not give you sooner: freedom. I am eternally grateful you did.   
  
"On that note, I shall end this letter. I hope... for many foolish things at this point, but mainly that this grants you some sort of peace, as you unknowingly granted me once. And perhaps you will also find more freedom from me and from what I did to you."  
  
It is simply signed "Methos."  
  
The pain I feel is fresh and deep, as I knew it would be. I never realized the cuts until now, as I knew would happen. The new wounds oddly seal some old ones I never thought could heal. That part is unexpected. I would still never trust that thing if he were still alive, but I feel this letter was not written by Death, head of the Four Horsemen. A human being wrote this. A dangerous, manipulative, human being with a twisted mind wrote this and explained how misguided he was. And because he did that, though it may all be lies, for the first time ever, I don't hate Methos.  
  
~*~*~*~March 19, 1998, Dr. Amy Zoll, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
I swear that darn phone is always ringing when I get home. It's like my Watcher superiors know to dial my number the moment my key enters the lock on the front door. Luckily, I've left the cordless receiver in the living room today, which means I only have to dash through the foyer, swerve around the couch, and reach out for the ringing object on the end table. In my rush, I curse the caller. I don't care if I'm up for a raise. If the Watcher council is calling for the third night in a row about Methos' annoying treatment of Timothy, I cannot be held accountable for my drastic and most likely violent actions. My hand grabs the electronic torture device when the noise stops mid-ring. When I find out what suicidal person thought this would be funny...  
  
It is only as I hear the click of a cellular phone closing, that I realize I am not alone in this room. Moreover, I know the call was the bait to get me in here, to stand on this very spot. The anger I felt at the unknown caller, so clear and solid a second ago, is quickly replaced by fear so cold that I feel ice in my stomach. My eyes automatically dart to one of my armchairs, now angled for a direct view of the moment I reached for the phone. It is in this chair that my intruder sits as calmly as an invited and wanted guest. The sole light source at the moment, a ceiling light in the foyer, slightly illuminates the figure, as I'm sure he knew it would. His body blends with the shadows around him. His dark frame bleeds into the chair. His black coat is carelessly draped across his thighs. His hands, still holding the phone that lured me into his trap, are lightly clasped on his trenchcoat over his lap. His face is relaxed, eerily innocent. His eyes are simultaneously cold and, I think, 'laughing' is the only word for it. There is some strange emotion dancing in those icy orbs, almost like an inhuman smirk resides there. But the rest of the individual radiates only calm, like this could never be an awkward situation.   
  
"Welcome home, Dr. Zoll," Methos pleasantly greets me. "Long night?"  
  
"Get out," the words are ground out. I will not remain afraid of this man. My anger is returning, and my self-confidence is growing. He may be cunning, strong, and a born and bred killer with over five thousand years of practiced-to-perfection experience, but I am a top Watcher and will not cower to him. Plus, I have a phone in the palm of my hand to call for help.  
  
"When the police respond to your call, I doubt you'll appreciate the story I give them. It'll be rather risquŽ, as they say." His voice remains patient and gentle. Methos must have noticed my free hand's slow move to discreetly dial. "I know the Watcher council won't like it."  
  
"They'd never believe a known liar like you," I respond. I can't risk what he'll say to the police, but another watcher wouldn't listen to him. I decide to call Joe; he can handle Methos.  
  
"I don't need them to believe, merely wonder. That'll be more than enough to bring your future as Head Methos researcher into question." The ancient criminal briefly pauses, perhaps watching as my fingers press the numbers for assistance. "Um, not to burst your bubble, but Joe and Tim won't provide much help. Joe's cell phone is out of service- was accidentally drenched in beer last evening. And Mac's treating him to dinner at a friend's new restaurant tonight. Tim's car was broken into this very afternoon and he'll probably be at the police station for a good while. I really don't see you contacting either one. Though, you're free to try."  
  
I'm tempted to throw the phone at his head. Methos' tone is infected with insincere helpfulness. It's sickening. The fact that he's right and both male watchers are not answering phones is not making me feel any better. "Of course, you had nothing to do with these convenient mishaps," I snap. My hard glare doesn't faze him in the least.   
  
"Not a thing. I just know a good opportunity when I see it, and I needed to talk to you."  
  
"There is nothing to say. Now get out of my house!" I turn to leave. I do not need to stay in this room with him.   
  
"I wouldn't leave if I were you," he says before I've taken three steps. The voice is ominous and alarming.   
  
"What did you do?" I pronounce which word slowly and observe his every move, from the tilt of his head to the raising of his eyebrows. His suddenly innocent expression doesn't fool me. I watch all of it for clues to what vile thing he's done.  
  
"Oh, I just want to talk. I haven't done anything more than break and enter. Didn't touch any of your watcher files or personal heirlooms. Honest. Your home is as perfectly safe as your friends and family."  
  
"My family..."  
  
"I haven't even talked to them. All of your relatives don't even know I exist. I swear I could use any alias at all, walk right up to your Nana in Marseille or godson, Cody, in London, and they wouldn't know who I am."   
  
The warning is far louder and harsher than his harmless tone suggests. Methos hasn't done anything to my home, family, or friends, yet. But he can and most certainly will if I don't listen. Swallowing my renewed fear, I try to ignore the faint, traitorous quiver I hear in my voice and demand to know what he wants.  
  
"Joe has asked a lot of things I'm certain he wouldn't if you didn't ask him to. So, I merely want you and your watcher colleagues to stop giving Joe questions to ask me," Methos nonchalantly responds while putting his phone into a coat pocket.   
  
"Excuse me?" To say I'm flabbergasted would be an extreme understatement. "You break into my home, threaten my family, for this?"  
  
To say he looks flabbergasted would also be an understatement. "First of all, your security system stinks and your kitchen window wasn't closed. Secondly, who's threatening? Really?" Methos shrugs his shoulders and turns up his hands as if he is honestly confused. "And this is an important issue, I'll have know."  
  
"Joe doesn't have to ask you anything. If you have a problem, talk to him and leave me alone," I fume. How dare he have the gall to come here and-  
  
"You really think Joe has that option?" He's laughing at me. Methos has an absurd expression on his pale face, and is throwing his head back to laugh harder. Again, I am tempted to throw the phone at him. Remembering his friendly warning, I resign myself to merely glowering at him in disgust.  
  
"He does," I assert.  
  
Methos, in return, instantly stops his irrational laughter and leaps from my chair. His trenchcoat dangles from his tight fist clutching the sword concealed within the fabric folds. He jerks his head to the side, assessing me. "That so?"  
  
Obeying the gleam in his eyes that eagerly dares me to repeat my declaration of Joe's freedom, I nod. "He always has a choice."  
  
The sneer that spreads wide across his face is devilish and wicked. "So true. He can choose to not ask me the question, which suggests that he can't ask his best friend a question- a rather humiliating prospect that you know he'll refuse." Methos slowly stalks toward me. "Or he can ask me and hope I answer. And I can choose to answer honestly, and risk putting a strain on our friendship. Or I can choose to lie, and risk putting a strain on our friendship. Or I can choose to say nothing, and definitely put a strain on our friendship." The oldest immortal stops an arm's length from me, and snips, "Were those the 'choices' to which you are so ignorantly referring?"   
  
His eyes narrow for a second, perhaps only a heartbeat. Then they open wide and are innocent once more. The manipulative creature's face relaxes, and the sneer transforms into a humble smile. I can almost hear a faint laugh emanating from somewhere within him. "Zoll, if you want to know about my life, ask me. Head Researcher to Immortal, I might talk. Screw your precious watcher oath, because this loophole you've found isn't good. It's jeopardizing an important friendship of mine, and Joe is a rare find. Someone that understanding and loyal--."  
  
The ringing of his cell phone disrupts the pleasant monologue. He answers the phone with a sheepish expression and gives me a moment's peace. The relief is brief as he closes his phone and observes me with an expectant smile.   
  
"I've been summoned to the bar. Joe's there, if you want to reach him now. Though I will deny everything," Methos says, playfulness in his voice, as he slips his coat on his lean frame. "Look, I would rather lose the friendship because I delete all traces of Methos and tell certain immortals every detail about the organization resulting in a seriously debilitating attack against the Watchers, than lose the friendship because you keep pestering Joe. And I'd love to chat some more, but I gotta go. You have a good night."  
  
Still in shock from this latest veiled vow of violence, I wordlessly watch him leave my home. The closing door breaks the trance his merciless promises put me under. I look around the room before regarding the phone still clutched in my hand. There's no point in talking to Joe. That may make things worse. Besides, I doubt he knows whom I met tonight. Joe has probably never met the fatal gentleman that showed up in my home, to protect a friendship no less. He never met Death of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the eternally dangerous immortal I can still hear whistling as he casually saunters off my property to see friends who will never know him as I do.  
  
~*~*~*~July 17, 1987CE, Merridith Brown, Gainsville, Maine~*~*~*~  
  
The reception is as lovely as the wedding. The decorations are fit for royalty. The food is exquisite. The church and this hall are magnificent. Melanie and Ryan are simply perfect together. Their taste in music, however, is slightly too new and fast for someone as mature as myself.  
  
Deciding to leave the youngsters to their music, I have wandered outside to this breathtaking garden. The flowers look spectacular. The sky is clear of clouds to showcase its wondrous array of stars. The air is fresh with an unseasonable touch of warmth.  
  
"Excuse me," says an accented voice behind me.   
  
I turn to see that it is a young man from the wedding and reception. I believe he is a friend of Ryan, someone he knew from school in England. I am sure we were introduced at some point tonight.  
  
"Is everything okay?" The question is asked softly and tentatively. It speaks of a genuine concern for me. I knew Ryan had good friends.  
  
"Nothing to worry about, dear. I simply wished not to be the grey goat in there." Seeing his confused expression, I explain, "I fear I am too old for their music."  
  
A warm smile spreads across his face. "I doubt you are the oldest one here. I'm sure you could dance to-" He pauses to listen to the current song playing inside the hall. His smile widens, "perhaps not."   
  
"Just as well," I assure him. "My joints and limbs aren't as flexible as they once were. If I tried, they would be cursing me before night's end."  
  
"Would you care for some company then?"  
  
"Is something wrong?" I ask, instantly worrying about why such a sweet young man would want to spend time with an old woman instead of having fun with others his age.  
  
"No," he shakes his head gently. "I just don't care for the music at the moment. And it is a lovely night out here."  
  
"Well then, come over, dear, and grace a old lady with your company. If you truly don't mind being seen with an old hag like me, that is."  
  
He approaches me. "If you are an old hag, I am an infant."  
  
"Such a kind gentleman, I must get your name again."  
  
"Adam Pierson. I met Ryan-"  
  
"At school," I finish for him. He nods. "I am his grandmother, Merridith."  
  
Adam bows his head, before taking my hand and kissing the air above it in an old gesture. I think I'm blushing when he releases my hand. "It is a true pleasure to meet you, Merridith."  
  
"You are quite the charmer."  
  
"I try to be on occasion, especially in the company of great women."  
  
"You remind me of my late husband. He could be charming too, usually while we were dancing."  
  
His eyes contain warm curiosity as he asks. "Did you dance often?"  
  
"Oh, yes, we danced all the time. Not to this music, but to slow, sweet music you can't find today."  
  
He nods his agreement. "Yes, this generation seems to be moving away from the soft and slow classics."  
  
"You sound as old as me."  
  
"Well, I am older than I look," he jokes. His eyes twinkle with humour as I regard him with obvious disbelief.  
  
After a brief but comfortable silence, Adam speaks. "Lovely, sweet Merridith, would you have this dance with me?"  
  
It is on the tip of my tongue to refuse, to repeat my reasons for being unable to dance to Ryan and Melanie's type of music. But he is suddenly humming, and positions his hands to begin a waltz. Feeling utterly silly, I take my place and begin moving with him.   
  
Adam is a complete gentleman. The hand hovering slightly above my hip never moves out of place. He keeps an appropriate distance between us and continues to hum only slow classics. I can hardly believe someone so young can remember the tunes so well. But he does, and for a moment, I can close my eyes and pretend I am years younger, dancing under the stars with a dear friend.   
  
Eventually the dancing ceases, and we separate. He gives a bow and I curtsey as best I can at my age.   
  
"Thank you," he absurdly says. He looks like a man who has just relived a bittersweet memory. His eyes are desperately trying to suppress tears. He sniffs and then smiles tightly to hide his sudden pain.  
  
Taking the dear's hand, I give it a gentle squeeze of support. "Thank you."  
  
"Grandma!" I can tell by the voice, my daughter Sandra is behind me. "There you are."  
  
I turn, releasing Adam's hand as I do so. "Yes, Sandra?"  
  
"We've been looking for you. They want to take a few more pictures." Her eyes have wandered to the charming man beside me. I know there is question she wants to ask.  
  
"I've been enjoying the garden with Ryan's friend," I explain. "I'll be right there." I go to say goodbye to my dance partner, but he speaks first.  
  
"It has been an immeasurable pleasure," he bows his head again. His eyes dance with mischief as he looks up. "From one grey goat to another, we should do this again sometime."  
  
I am confused by his remarks. I can only reply, "yes, we should."  
  
His smile warms and widens before he strolls away to enjoy the garden alone. I go to join my daughter.   
  
I cast one last look at this mysterious gentleman, as I am about to re-enter the hall. He has his hands in his pants pockets, his face turned to the stars, and is wearing an expression of lost love that suggests an experience a man his age cannot possibly have yet. Perhaps he is older than he looks.  
  
~*~*~*~January 4, 2015CE, Joseph Dawson, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
I think Methos might be upset with me right now. He had a personal rule about playing sad music when one was sad: try not to do it. "During a tragedy, you must listen to music about the good times to remember there is hope and joy in the life. Otherwise, you become bitter and depressed. Your hygiene goes right out the window, and you die a sour, smelly, lonely grump." I can hear his words echo in my mind, even as I strum my guitar to one of BB's songs.   
  
It's actually a song Methos played for me once. It was during one of his not-so-rare visits to the bar. He often came by to see what was new. Though sometimes I think he came because he was bored- bored enough not to complain whenever I told him to do some work around the bar. But that day, he'd come in and I could tell the smile was forced. When he offered to tune the instruments on stage- a task he generally avoided, I knew something was definitely wrong. The saxophone and drums were checked quickly and efficiently. The piano was tuned, and then slowly used to produce an eerie and heartbreaking rendition of 'Mad World.' Though, Methos later told me Gary Jules had done a better job. The old man had fumbled with the guitar a bit before finally singing and playing this song. That day 'Same Old Story' was sung far softer and disheartening than BB King probably meant it to be, but I doubt Methos even realized. For the most part, his eyes were glued to his fingers striking the strings. The rest of the time, they were closed. When he'd finished, he looked at me with a sheepish expression on his face. A blush of embarrassment had appeared on his cheeks too. Then he played 'Stand by Me' in a quick and exaggerated fashion. Perhaps realizing he had been violating his own rule, Methos continued playing in that style. 'If I Had a Million Dollars,' 'Little Bit O'Soul,' and 'I Will Survive' successfully broke the depressing mood in the bar. The smiles were genuine when he left the stage.  
  
It wasn't until he was about to leave that night that he told me what had brought on his depression: the second oldest immortal had died. The victim wasn't anyone he knew, but the widening gap between his age and that of the next oldest immortal upset him. I had to keep from laughing at him when he confessed to me. It's just the most absurd thing. The times when something was bothering him, or that he was in trouble or feeling lonely, Methos looked young. It was funny that way. I always expected someone so old to look every bit of his age when he was upset. Instead, Methos would look vulnerable, like a lost boy who wonders if someone will hold his hand and tell him that everything's going to be okay. That night, he'd been depressed and feeling unpleasantly old, and looked like an innocent kid, confused by one of life's many unfortunate twists.  
  
We buried that child today. We had a wake last night at a former watcher headquarters. It was packed with immortals, some of whom I've wanted to meet for decades. I hardly spoke with any of them. I spent the night writing an awful eulogy for the funeral today. It was a nice funeral, if such a thing is possible. The church had been packed with people wanting to say farewell to a friend, or teacher, or lover, or enemy, or stranger. They all politely listened to the eulogy that would have had Methos smirking and shaking his head in disbelief at my arrogance and exaggerations. I stood in a church, and I said I was Methos' best friend and that I knew him. I lied to the congregation, told them that Methos was a strong, selfless, and ingenious man, a model for the rest of us youngsters. I conveniently didn't say that we were burying someone who could be very selfish; whose bottomline was always how he survived in the end. There was no section in my spiel about his willingness to turn his back on friends when they needed him. I didn't say he could be cold and detached. Instead, I said he was the great husband who tried to save his wife, which he was. But I glossed over his period as Death- two lines in a speech that spanned a page and a half. I proclaimed that he'd changed completely, had become a man. I never mentioned a kid who fumbled through life with the simple hope that he was getting it right and wouldn't die. Mac squeezed my shoulder when I returned to my seat and Amy held my hand, both thinking I'd done a great job. When we arrived at the gravesite close to Alexa's, we said our final goodbyes and I apologized for, perhaps, furthering a legend whose shadow smothered its creator every day that he lived. I patted his tombstone before I left the cemetery.  
  
I don't know why I did it, patting a stone as I would have patted his shoulder when I was leaving. Just another absurd action to add to the growing list, I guess. This whole experience has been full of them. Everyone is surprised by Methos' death, but we all knew it would come. People expect me to know why Methos held hands with a little girl at the time of his death. They want to know how he knew her, what their relationship was, and why her mother sat two rows behind them, and they think I have the answers when I am as in dark as they are. Mac and Tim argued about what religion Methos (who never showed a particular religious preference) would have preferred for his burial or cremation- I laughed out loud at that one. Nick didn't want any watchers near the funeral or wake, despite the fact that Methos probably wouldn't have minded the attention or the collection of information and truths. I was chosen to write the eulogy because, apparently, when someone hangs out with you a lot, you are his very best friend and know him the best. Then, to showcase the absurdity, we had the tombstone engraved with his real name, Methos, and "3050BCE approx. - 2014 CE." I'm sure the long procession of grievers will bring many here, and they will wonder why we made this mockery of a grave. Those ignorant visitors won't understand that we weren't burying Adam Pierson, or that Methos deserved to be laid to rest under his true name and his age. Future generations will come and laugh, but we will know the truth and I'm sure Methos would appreciate that. Though, he may still wish I wasn't playing this blues song.  
  
I will stop eventually. Later on, we'll listen to other musicians sing about a wonderful world, and beautiful days, friends being there and standing by each other forever. We'll hear about sunrises, and love, and families, and happiness, and great lives, and heaven on Earth. But right now... right now, I need to play songs about how I feel, about loss, and pain, and lives ending too soon.  
  
~*~*~*~August 6, 2106CE, Franciasca Amori, New York, United States of America~*~*~*~  
  
Analysis of the subject's journals and recovered belongings is now complete. Finally, advances in linguistics and archeology have resulted in all languages translated and all items identified to satisfactory certainty. Earlier theories, stating that Methos owned only what was discovered in its home in the days following its death (decapitated by a plane's wing in Paris on December 25, 2014), have proven to be correct. Several journal entries demonstrate the creature's continuous frustration and regret regarding the habitual loss of most of its cherished mementos and remembrances due to its numerous sudden moves. Furthermore, there are at least two entries citing reasons to avoid preserving photos, portraits, and other image retaining items. Though the inhuman subject does not give any firsthand accounts, it does imply knowing other immortals that later regretted their decisions to keep such objects; one may have been decapitated when a long-forgotten painting revealed the falsehood of its alias.  
  
The recovered journals will continue to provide the organization with hefty, long-term income. Our analysis has discovered many new locations for future lucrative archeological digs. The artifacts discovered at our current sites still sell for millions of dollars. In addition, though countless volumes of the subject's journal are still missing and presumed destroyed, the remaining and newly translated information will help produce additional highly profitable articles and books. Topics for these original literary works include changing oneself, motivations of a tyrant and/or rapist, the evolution of the world and its population, and struggling with issues of depression, age-difference, and the physical loss of limbs and/or senses.  
  
Most of the collected goods (books, swords, fad objects, antiques, etc) have already been sold in various auctions, or to museums and collectors. The money brought in by these transactions has funded new watcher research, the construction of three Watcher academies, and purchases of updated equipment for surveillance and record keeping. As well, it saved the subject's own tombstone from demolition four years ago. New cemetery managers, planning to move the cemetery, believed the tombstone to be a crude joke against Adam Pierson (the name used to officially bury the immortal). Risking media attention for acquiring such an item, the organization purchased the tombstone and replaced it with the less conspicuous version, engraved with its alias' name, and year of birth and death. This controversial move should further protect the secret of immortals and Watchers. The remaining items discovered at the subject's home are being kept as Watcher artifacts and teaching tools in countless Watcher academies.   
  
Despite the informative and financial gains, the subject's death and the subsequent recovery of much of its property have left Watcher researchers with several unsolvable mysteries. For instance, we are still uncertain of the validity of the tale of Dr. Amy Zoll's meeting with the oldest immortal. In late 1996, Dr. Amy Zoll was assigned to replace dishonourably discharged Adam Pierson, a.k.a. Methos, as the Head Researcher of the Methos Chronicles. Dr. Zoll quickly discovered that Methos, as Pierson, had changed some Watcher files, possibly falsifying several historical accounts. However, the Watcher oath at the time prevented her from directly asking the immortal for the truth. Needing information, Dr. Zoll had approached Joseph Dawson for help. Dawson, a previous Watcher of the immortal Duncan MacLeod, is said to have been the immortals' closest friend. He supposedly hid Pierson's true identity and even delivered the eulogy at Methos' funeral. It is documented that a deal was struck and Dawson discreetly asked questions as he was instructed. The ancient immortal would then answer them, and Dr. Zoll corrected files as was necessary. Unfortunately, according to the story, Methos somehow realized what was happening and confronted Dr. Zoll in early 1998. Pure speculation surrounds what took place, but the inquiring practice suddenly ceased. Dr. Zoll refused to offer any explanation and strongly urged all researchers to abide by her decision. Dawson freely admitted to asking questions for Dr. Zoll, but made no mention of a possible meeting in any of his reports. The most important evidence, the immortal's own account of what occurred, is in a journal we have yet to find so the story will remain in speculation.  
  
A little girl, clutching the immortal's hand, as they were both decapitated, personifies another mystery left by the creature. The girl's mother, Julliette LaRue, seated two rows behind the pair and, therefore, unable to properly watch them, had no known connection to the immortal. In fact, it is unclear if the two could have ever met prior to that very evening. LaRue stayed at home, surviving on a vast fortune left by her late husband, Michel. Phone records, recovered schedules, and lists of known and suspected friends and visitors of both Juillette and Michel reveal nothing related to the immortal. The child, Molly, had been taught at home by her mother and rarely ventured out of their mansion. All contacted individuals who had met the mother have stated that she was polite, but distrusting of even her servants. They described the girl as incredibly shy and prone to hiding from strangers. The chances of the abomination having somehow known them are extremely low. However, the seating arrangement and the holding of hands imply a strong level of trust uncommon to new meetings. The journal entries explaining the significance of these individuals to the creature's life remain lost, and every Watcher record of an immortal who met the oldest of their kind, when it was living or dead, contain a question regarding the relationship. It is a conundrum only Methos could solve.  
  
~*~*~*~December 25, 2014CE, Methos, Paris, France~*~*~*~  
  
When will this bloody plane ever take off? My seat's uncomfortable. The stewardess, or flight attendant to be modern and politically correct, is ugly, slow, and has the most aggravating voice. It sounds like a wheezing horse is giving emergency instructions. The weather seems to be getting worse so I may have to trudge through the freezing cold to get back to Amy and Sean's home. Not to mention that I may miss the deadline for signing the documents for the move. It was one problem after another with those papers, and now an incompetent pilot who is too afraid to trust the advancements of technology is going to make me miss signing them on time. And if that smelly, middle-aged jerk doesn't stop kicking the back of my chair, I will discreetly take him to the very back of the plane, remove his tongue, and give him a glimpse of something to fear for the rest of his life- all two torture-filled minutes of it.   
  
I may not be thee Death of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse of legend anymore, but I still know how to end an irritating slob. Granted, I won't kill the idiot because that would be wrong. But it's soothing to entertain the idea of getting back to my roots. I could do it without anyone ever knowing about it. It's a talent I have. People might cheer my employment of it, if they knew I was getting rid of someone this inconsiderate. After he's gone, I could have yet another good night's sleep of the just. I could lure-  
  
Molly tugs on my arm, clearly oblivious to the fact that now is not the time to remind me that she exists. The little brat has been prattling on about me being her new bestest friend for what seems like forever. Next time I see some stupid bully picking on a sweet looking girl, I'm going to ignore her. I won't care if her plight goes unnoticed by her mother who is busy at the airport counter. I should have let the little wench fend for herself. It would have saved me from having this annoying tag-along tugging on my arm every thirty seconds because I don't constantly look at her. No wonder her mum let her sit next to me for this plane trip; she's probably enjoying the peaceful solitude while I baby-sit the next Rhoda.   
  
When she asked to sit beside me, I'd foolishly said yes. Blinded by her compliments, I turned my back to my instincts and even smiled at her. She just had to say that she never talked to strangers, but she'd talk to me because I was her hero. She just had to bring up the fact that she could tell I was different and safe. She just had to look like a young Elizabeth, impossibly declaring me great because I was different. She just had to mention traveling to see a Claudia Jardine concert in London, falsely suggesting she had manners, and decency, and consideration for another human being's arm- now she's tugging after only twenty seconds! She just had to say it all while I was wishing that I were still at Amy's, and missing their warm company. So, I just had to be flattered. I just had to be crazy and want to play someone's hero and dear friend. I just had to be stupid and lonely enough to let her take that seat. I will be regretting my moment of weakness all the way to London.  
  
I know I should be a bit more tolerant. I am usually capable of such a feat. Right now, however, I'm just in a persistent foul mood. I didn't want to leave Amy's home to go to a depressing real estate office. At her home, I'm Methos, joking around with friends. At that office, I'm Adam Pierson, signing papers with professionals whose names I won't recall in a few months. And I don't want to be flying off without seeing Duncan. A long life has taught me that friends can be lost in a heartbeat. I'd hate to think he died without telling me about his newest comical battle with guilt. It's hard not to laugh when he's losing sleep over issues and assuming I would be the same way. And I'm stuck in a plane, leaving all that fun.  
  
I would give my life right now, if it meant never again leaving the people about whom I care. Not one more night of goodbyes or tears because what I am demands frequent moves. Not another moment of feeling apart from a world full of love, because I can't keep making deep, strong connections only to sever them in the future. Not another item lost by a sudden move or quick escape. Not another house only half full of things that mean anything to me. Not another farewell to a friend.  
  
Molly tugs my arm again, focusing my anger back at her. I take her hand into mine to prevent her from yanking my arm clean out of its socket. Molly's babbled something about staying at home and not having any friends besides her mum. I can feel why! I've known professional torturers who were less cruel than this child. At first, I was amazed by the number of questions her mother asked me before Molly was allowed to sit here. Now I know she was luring me into a false sense of security before unleashing her spawn upon me. That woman is probably quite proud of herself right now, knowing I've got the source of headaches clutching my hand. I swear, if Molly- possibly Lucifer's little sister- doesn't start listening to my polite, but pointed, requests for her to behave, she's going to fly long before this plane leaves the ground; I going to throw the blonde brat ri--  
  
~*~  
  
"That's the way the story goes  
  
I tell ya, that's the way the story goes."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ E N D N O T E S :  
  
*Timothy -Methos' watcher/friend  
  
Timothy Wyatt was Methos' watcher according to www.methos.org, which got its info from the Watcher CD.  
  
*Shanuwah -Head Priest and Guardian of Methos/Etu-Anik  
  
So the apprenticeship of Etu-Anik/Methos was handled by an arrogant, power-hungry priest who encouraged Methos to conquer other villages, to "bless" (have sex with) women (even if they cried), and to walk into a raging river with the false belief he could magically control it.   
  
Also, information I used to pick the location (as vague as it was) and describe the temple came from employees.oneonta.edu/walker/OldWorld/Neolithic%20Europe.ppt.  
  
*Amy Thomas-Plante -Good friend  
  
Amy is Joe's daughter from "Indiscretions." I made up her husband.  
  
*Margarie -Friend, only knew Adam Pierson  
  
*Gerard -Watcher on Search and Recovery mission in Methos' home  
  
According to Guinness World Records, the U.S. Library of Congress is the largest library in the world. It holds over 118 million items, which require more than 500 miles of shelving.  
  
¥Items I Made Up: The raggedy 'Peggy' doll was the one young Cloe gave him so he wasn't so lonely. The mounted and framed broken spear belonged to Raven Eye, as later mentioned by Silent Bear.   
  
¥Items Directly From the Show: The bronze dagger is the one Kronos had from Cassandra. The novelty lamp is the same one on his desk in the "Methos" episode.  
  
¥Items Inspired by the Show: The stone with "03151995 Santorini" was from a beach in Santorini where Methos and Alexa watched a sunrise on March 15, 1995. The spare barge keys are ones Methos made after getting Mac's barge as part of the deal in the episode "Till Death" with the DeValincourts. The original edition of 'The Flowers of Evil' signed by Baudelaire is the book Don gave to Kalas in "Methos". Don said it was his prized possession, and is signed by the author. Kalas then ripped a page from the book and tossed it aside. Baudelaire is considered by some to be the father of modern poetry. I thought it worked.  
  
*Kronos -Brother in all ways but birth  
  
"No man can control the river; it will control him" is something Methos picked up after trying Shanuwah's plan to save the village.  
  
*Amanda -Best friend  
  
Believe it or not, an accident like this did happen in Europe some years ago. All passengers of one airplane were beheaded on the runway when the wing of another plane got too close.   
  
*Darius -Best friend  
  
In ancient times, Gaul was a region of Western Europe that included what are now France, Belgium, and parts of Italy, Germany, and the Netherlands.  
  
*Silent Bear -Tribesman/enemy  
  
In "The Valkyrie" Methos said he could be an Indian chief, had paper work to cover it all. So, maybe he was one.  
  
*Sean Plante -Husband of friend  
  
*Nick -Friend (sort of)  
  
Nick mentions/sees certain immortals seen on the show. These include: Gregor Powers (Studies in Light), Kit O'Brady (Double-Eagle), Cassandra (Comes A Horsemen, etc), the DeValincourts ('Til Death), Stephen Keane (Forgive Us Our Trespasses), Maria (Chivalry), and Marcus Constantine (The Pharaoh's Daughter). People from other parts of this story who are mentioned in this section are: Tim, Sean, Amy, the Getsburgs (Margarie) and the Browns (Merridith).   
  
In addition, the line about Methos' tendency to 'enjoy sunny days unencumbered by weaponry was unbelievable' is loosely based on the fact that he was a watcher, and on an instance during "The Valkyrie." In that episode, when Methos gets Duncan out of jail, he's not wearing any clothing that could properly conceal weapons and he took a cab; chances are that he didn't leave any weapons in the cab's backseat. Plus, it is conceivable that he occasionally went to places weaponless while posing as a watcher.   
  
*Ian -Watcher, friend of Don Saltzer  
  
If Adam/Methos and Don moved to Paris the same year in which Don was later killed and Methos took over the bookstore, it could explain why Methos seemed surprised that Paris was prone to flooding in the winter ("Through the Glass Darkly" with Cochrane). The comment had suggested Methos hadn't been in Paris for a full year for a while, but was already a student at the university. So they leave London, Don starts running the bookstore, Adam goes to the university, and Ian leaves to watch Mai Ling.  
  
*Elizabeth -Former wife  
  
Isn't Elizabeth a prize, folks? As for the trip to the New World, in "Till Death" Methos mentions going to Iceland in 765CE in a rowboat with Irish monks and hating water/boats every since. New evidence suggests that, around that time, Irish monks went to Iceland and then to places in what is now Canada. So it is conceivable that, despite his new found hatred for water, Methos' ride with the monks, went past Iceland to Canadian settlements, he didn't leave the settlements with the monks for whatever reason, and eventually managed to snag a ride with the Vikings back to Europe in about 1000CE.  
  
*Alexa -Former wife  
  
Methos' tearful reaction to the sentence "You are beautiful to me, Methos" is mostly because his old wife Elizabeth and possibly others viewed his immortality (the Methos side of whatever persona he was playing) as ugly.  
  
*Richie -Good friend  
  
In the episode Chivalry, Maria was a dear friend to Richie and a complete stranger to Methos. An immortal, Kristin, drugged the up-and-coming model and dumped her in a pool. In the rescue/resuscitation shot, it seems Methos was the one who dove in and helped save her. As far as Methos' past as a near god goes, recorded history certainly says his claim has no merit. But, hey, if the true story is so unbelievable, it could become nothing more than a vague myth today.   
  
*Duncan -Best friend  
  
The suit is the one Methos planned to wear if he ever worked up the courage to deliver his letter to Cassandra. Methos figured she would kill him, and it would be the last suit he ever wore.  
  
*Cassandra -1 of 1000 regrets, former victim  
  
Though neither Cassandra nor Methos realize it, Shanuwah (a great guide if you want to be a terrible human being) was the one who initially taught many of the vile things Methos used to belief. Others along the way helped enforce those ideas, unfortunately.  
  
*Amy Zoll -Head researcher of the Methos Chronicles  
  
This gal comes from the Watcher CD, according to www.methos.org. In addition, Methos never threatened her. He merely mentioned things that would allow Dr. Zoll to imagine what would definitely happen if she does not comply with his wishes.  
  
*Joe -Best friend  
  
'Same Old Story' is by BB King. Gary Jules' version of 'Mad World' is really good and eerie. 'Stand by Me' was by Ben E. King. 'If I had a million dollars' was performed by Barenaked Ladies, 'Little Bit O' Soul' was performed by The Music Explosion, and 'I Will Survive' was performed by Gloria Gayne. I don't know if those singers/bands wrote those songs. In any case, they were mentioned without permission, and all, except 'Same Old Story,' are recommended for your listening pleasure. I've never heard that song, but the lyrics are appropriate for the story. For example, "one day hello, next day goodbye," "what can you do, just see it through, and hold on to what is left of you," and "now you're going, then you're gone. Same old story, same old song."  
  
*Merridith -Acquaintance  
  
  
*Fran -Future head researcher of the Methos Chronicles  
  
Could it actually take the Watchers over a hundred years to translate Methos' journals? Yes. In fact, it is quite likely that many languages used by someone that old would never be translated. Countless languages have been lost every decade for the past several millennia. It's important to note that hieroglyphics were only deciphered when the Rosetta Stone (sort of an ancient Hieroglyphic to Greek to Damon Script alphabet tablet) was discovered by Napoleon.  
  
*Methos -Himself  
  
Rhoda was the name of the little girl/killer in the great movie 'Bad Seed.'   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
*Author Notes:  
  
- Thank you for reading all the way to the end. I'm touched.   
  
- This is a carefully crafted, thoroughly plotted story, consisting of 22 sections specifically designed to assist in the overall product. So, if you hated it and decide to email me, please be gentle and brief. Though, if you loved it and decide to email me, feel free to gush. 


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